Will of Iron, Heart of Gold
by Chaos Productions
Summary: In a world where ideals are embodied by entire city states, one man is on the verge of losing his battle to be different. When a freak accident mere moments from death grants him the power to stop running, and fight back for what he believes, he sets out; With an iron will and a golden heart, he will find his place in the world - and his role in the future to come.
1. Chapter 1

**Pre-Chapter A/N: ****Well, here we go. I saw the whole "OC goes to the League" trend was getting some swell reception nowadays, so I figured I'd try my hand at it myself. Here goes nothing - hope you guys enjoy it, and in advance, I'm really sorry about the chapter length xD**

**Will of Iron, Heart of Gold  
Chapter 1  
Symbiosis**

In a weird, twisted way, this went against each and every instance of her morality, really.

It was early – the sun had only just started to peek out over the mountaintops, bathing the somewhat forested area in a miasma of dim lights and fading shadows. It was ideal, really – the hues of her padded apparel blended rather nicely with the varying shades of grey and purple the early morning brought with it. As she darted from the base of one tree to the next, nary a sound coming from her heels, she couldn't help but let her mind wander.

It seemed odd at first, dispatching a Ranger Team to take care of one simple deserter. Usually the Demacian guard took care of such matters – as such, it greatly piqued her curiosity when she was approached with the task. After all, why would the high command expend resources and send _them_, a pair skilled in deep-cover endeavours, on a simple manhunt? This oddity had bothered her for a while, really, even after being briefed – merely learning of her target's crimes was not enough to sate her curiosity.

High above her, an eagle let out its majestic shriek – it had seen something, and that something was close by, apparently.

Quinn did not allow herself to shake her head – curious or not, her mission had been finalized and her objective had been made clear. A Demacian double agent was dead at this deserter's hand – a brave man, cruelly ripped from friends and family. She did not need to consider the offender's reasoning – the act in and of itself had struck a near-crippling blow.

She had read of the man's history in the small dossier she had attained – a lowborn citizen, orphaned by the loss of his father and two brothers to skirmishes and minor border conflicts against bandits. He had officially deserted the city state of Demacia thirteen years ago, and has been a wanted man ever since. At first, Quinn had been baffled – how had the guard struggled _thirteen years_ to catch _one_ man? Her outrage had been met with a hotly defended yet automated response from the captain – "He's a cunning one," the captain had said with no small amount of ire, "the lad can't even hold a blade right, true, but his mind's sharper than any sword."

When Quinn had confronted him with the fact that "He's smart" was not an excuse to tolerate a _thirteen year_ evasion, the captain finally blew his lid at her, exclaiming how 'one fucking deserter' didn't warrant a larger-scale manhunt as far as the higher-ups were concerned, and that if she thought she could do one better, she could go right ahead – the captain made a valid point when he said bandits, turncoats, outlaws and thieves along the borders posed a bigger problem than one simple deserter.

She sighed to herself as she sprinted through the woods – she _had_ made more progress than any hunting parties dispatched after the man, but still, the captain's words were ringing true. While she encountered very little in terms of traps and deception, her target _was_ cunning enough to elude her just long enough to make her frustration start mounting. The Guard's lax attitude and lenience towards him had allowed him to build up a network of allies and informants across all the major city states – Demacia excluded – and even some of the lesser ones. From Demacia, she had trekked to the mouth of the Howling Marsh, where her prey was last sighted, and proceeded to follow what little part of a trail she could distinguish.

While the few travellers in the areas he'd been sighted were unhelpful – whether through ignorance or, she suspected, loyalty – she could determine that he was en route the Freljord – or at least following along the Serpentine river, going by the patterns of the sightings. For but a moment, she allowed herself to ponder what his goals might have meant – but soon enough she shook those thoughts from her head as well. Within moments, her focus had reset itself –

…and was promptly shattered when a loud gunshot rang out far in the distance.

Barely a second passed between the loud report and Valor's shrill cry, alerting her to a threat further ahead. Immediately her eyes sharpened, and she darted forwards, her arms spread out beside her to help her balance in her mad dash forwards. There wasn't much wildlife in the area – at least not of the type that could be put down with a single shot – so a gunshot this far out meant trouble.

She vaulted over a fallen log with practiced ease, barely breaking stride as her eyes scanned the sky for signs of her partner. Amidst the openings in the treetops she could see Valor circling further ahead, erratically darting back and forth to try and signal where she should be heading. Quinn made the briefest of nods before drawing her crossbow, and increasing her speed even more. Whether this was her target or not, if someone was being attacked by a suspect individual it was her duty to assist – regardless of the cause of the conflict.

Another gunshot ran out, and as if nature itself wished to prove her wrong, a bloodthirsty howl followed it – more than likely a wolf or at the most, some form of rabid dog. Nonetheless, these things moved in packs; whoever was in their sight was a dead man if he fought alone. As if waiting for that exact train of thought, she saw Valor bear his talons and fold his wings to his side, diving down into the treeline with a fierce shriek. Another howl followed, closer this time, a clear sign that Quinn herself was gaining ground at a suitable pace. Another howl echoed through the trees, and another gunshot answered it; by this time Quinn was close enough to hear a pained yelp.

From that point it was all systematic – her eyes narrowed, her breathing slowed and her footfalls lost all sense of noise. Despite being a Ranger for a long time, Quinn new better than to approach a pack of wild animals gung-ho – if there was a third party involved, there was much more at stake.

It was then that the smell assaulted her, and her mind immediately comprehended where the wolves had come from. The unique aroma of burning meat filled her nostrils, and given the wind that travelled in-between it was no wonder a pack of beasts followed it.

From the bushes before her she heard a sound that made even her recoil – whether through caution or fear was unknown. She had come to know the sound well, during her time with Institute of War – countless times she had encountered Nidalee, the Bestial Huntress, on the Summoner's Rift, and countless times she had heard that _exact_ same snarl – it was a warning, a premonition, a boast and a challenge; the sound of a predator about to take down its prey. She tried to dash faster, tilting her torso forwards even more, but in vain – the snarl had turned into a vicious bark, and a woman's voice screamed a gurgled note of pain shortly thereafter, just before a final gunshot spelled silence.

She didn't dare slow down – she burst through the bushes and into the clearing just as a large, black wolf leapt back from a wandering young woman. Part of its foreleg had been shredded by shrapnel – likely from the woman's now-discarded shotgun – but its lips and fangs were covered in blood that most certainly wasn't its own. As the wounded woman stumbled back, clutching a weeping bite on her neck, the injured wolf hopped back, turning its hellish yellow gaze on Quinn. Two more wolves – the last ones remaining, judging by the buckshot-riddled corpses in the clearing – quickly stepped in front of their injured pack mate, bearing their fangs and snarling at the newcomer. One of them had some interesting scars across its snout – almost as though it had been raked by a set of talons.

She didn't blink – her focus was split between the beast in front of her, and the wounded civilian slumped against a far tree. She had little worry for the two wolves before her – she _was_ a Demacian Ranger, after all – but the slightest erroneous movement could spell the difference between a quick skirmish and a drawn-out battle. She had to wait for the right moment – the right opportunity…

Said opportunity promptly dove through the treetops again, uttering his majestic cry as his talons flexed again.

That was her cue. She darted the moment the wolves did – while one leapt and nipped and tried feebly to attack Valor, the other charged right at her, murderous intent gleaming in its eyes. A normal person would have had trouble with the larger-than-average beast; be it a conflict between fear and fight-or-flight, a normal person wouldn't have survived such a lunge.

Fortunately, Quinn wasn't a normal person – by any standard.

A flurry of bolts flew from her crossbow with speed and reflex only one such as herself could lay claim to, and the wolf before her crashed to the ground mid-leap, its forelegs skewered. It skidded towards her; the friction on its injured legs made the beast whine before coming to a stop. It glared at her from its grounded position, and for but a moment it was as though as a primal fear bloomed in its eyes – right before Quinn plugged another bolt in between its eyes.

The other wolf was already charging at her, ignoring Valor's attempts to hinder it. This one had gained a fair bit more momentum than it's now-dead pack mate – it lunged at her with ferocity to shame even the Bestial Huntress, its fangs bared and seeking blood. She didn't allow this to make her waver – quickly and efficiently she let one leg slide sideways out from under her, and she dipped down just as the beast's paws left the ground. The mass of fangs and hair flew over her, it's shadow hiding the quick check she did of her custom crossbow, and the two turned to face each other in unison.

This time it was _her_ turn to lunge.

A myriad of battles on the Summoner's Rift had left her with a mastery of quick lunges towards her foes. Like a hawk, she darted forwards, crossbow aimed, eyes narrowed and focus steeled. The wolf tried to dash towards her; it snarled and bore its fangs again – and yelped as the heel of Quinn's boot caught it flush on the snout. Putting all her weight into her leg, Quinn forced the beast's snout down into the ground, where a sickening _snap_ met her ears, and without a moment's hesitation she flipped backwards, clearing admirable distance between herself and the injured wolf. She aimed and landed at the same time, proof of rigorous training and awe-inspiring skill, and before the second wolf could even recover, it too had a bolt between its eyes.

She had her crossbow trained on the remaining wolf before its pack mate had even hit the ground.

For but a moment she hesitated – for just a moment she thought of leaving the injured one, letting it escape to seek refuge, or at least find a more peaceful end. But the sight of human blood smeared across its snout rendered that option obsolete – any wild beast that had tasted human blood had to be put down. She allowed herself but a blink as her finger applied the merest hint of pressure to the trigger, and much to her surprise, the wolf seemed to exhale – as if making peace.

The crossbow delivered its final silent report, and the last wolf fell.

There was no time to catch her breath, though – quickly rushing to the injured woman's side, she holstered her crossbow and knelt down. The woman seemed like your typical mercenary, really – mix and matched armor, dark leathers and sturdy materials and a traditional shotgun anyone could purchase in a back-alley in Bilgewater. Briefly she wondered if this woman was new to the career – whether she had bitten off more than she could chew – but the bitterness in her eyes told a different story.

She grit her teeth as Quinn applied pressure to the gaping wound in her neck – three fingers was adequate to stem the flow of blood, and to her great fortune, no vital artery had been ruptured. It showed on the woman's face – the cold sweat was there, but she was everything but pale.

"Figures," the mercenary spat bitterly, "dad always said I'd go out in such a stupid way." Despite the negativity, though, Quinn sensed the torrent of fear hidden in the woman's voice. "That… That bitch… She told me this would be an easy bounty… Find the deserter, apprehend him…" She paused, coughing harshly, before spitting a wad of blood out on the ground. "If I knew… If I knew that _fucker_ was so smart I would never have…" She coughed again, and a tear slipped from the corner of her eye. "Fuck sakes, this isn't worth a hundred silvers…" She sniffed. "This was supposed to be easy…"

Quinn allowed her gaze to soften slightly. It seemed as though she was right after all – this was just a young woman who'd gotten in way over her head. "Shh. Rest easy," she said softly as she fumbled in the small travel pack she brought along for medical supplies. "What's your name?" Keep her talking at least, Quinn thought – anything to keep the woman from blacking out or having a panic attack. "How old are you even?"

"D-Does that even matter now…" The woman rasped, shivering slightly as Quinn applied a thick wad of gauze to the wound. "Thing went for my neck… I'm done for…" She sighed. "Name… Name's Yalia. I'm t-" She interrupted herself again with a cough, this one nowhere near as harsh. "I'm twenty-two…"

"Yalia…" Quinn mused as she continued her work patching up the woman's wound. "Why would you turn to mercenary work at such a young age?"

"M-Mercenary?" Yalia shuddered. "I wouldn't dream of it. I'm just… just a bounty hunter. I go after lightweight stuff… With people like the Battle Mistress and the G-Grandmaster at Arms operating as mercs…" She coughed lightly again. "I'm just a girl with a gun. How can I even compete?"

"Well Yalia," Quinn said with a soft smile, "I've got good news for you. The injury is quite raw, and in need of disinfection, but it didn't hit a vital artery. You're going to live." Nothing more needed to be said – Quinn remained silent as she observed the woman's face; the expression of shock that had appeared at first quickly melted into of utmost relief, and pretty soon Quinn found it difficult to keep working due to the fact that Yalia had started laughing uncontrollably. "So what happened here, Yalia?"

"The…" Yalia chuckled again, before calming herself. "The fucking bounty happened, that's what," she sighed listlessly. "God… That woman told me he was a nerdy type, but damn," she chuckled again, pointing to a tree behind Quinn. "I… I wasn't expecting that."

The Ranger turned to look where the young bounty huntress was pointing and – much to her surprise – saw discarded carcasses, belonging to rabbits and ferrets, strung up amidst the trees. Grudgingly, she admitted it had been just outrageous enough to work, according to the dead wolves in the clearing. While they didn't normally feast on carcasses, the scent of blood meant prey – and they found prey this time, even if it wasn't the owner of the scent.

"Got no idea how long the things were stalking us. Think my gunshot set them off, though… Came out of fucking nowhere, the mongrels…" Yalia said shakily. "Oh, gods… The adrenaline's wearing off…"

"Yalia," Quinn addressed the woman, easily capturing her attention – it would help nobody if she passed out now. "You were talking about a bounty. Tell me about him."

"That fuck… Bastard's been avoiding me all the way from Mogron Pass… Lost track of him there. I know for a fact he's heading to the Freljord – so I… I planned ahead. I learned he's a bookish sort – loves studying old languages and stuff. Saw a ruin not too far up ahead, thought he'd shelter there… I tried to set up an ambush but… Fuck sakes," She said with a hint of bitterness. "The person I paid for the info told me he's a useless soldier – can't even hold a dagger properly. Naturally I thought it would be easy money… But he's a slippery little fuck."

"We know that much," Quinn nodded, unclipping a canteen of water from her belt and offering it to the bounty huntress. "He's been on the run for thirteen years."

"_Thirteen fuckin y-_" To her credit, Yalia caught herself just before going off on a rant. "I was never going to catch him, was I?" She asked with a groan as she shifted herself upright. "Bastard… All that wasted coin…" Her eyes narrowed. "But you're tracking him as well, aren't you?" When she saw Quinn nod, she smiled ruefully. "I think… I think I might have been some help after all," she mumbled as she shuffled to the side, wincing once or twice, before retrieving her discarded shotgun. "Buckshot," she said simply as she held the gun up. "My first shot managed to shred his arm. I doubt all the pellets hit, but enough of them tore in to make a mist of sorts," she said shakily. "You Rangers are the tracking sort, no? I'm sure he left a blood trail for you to follow."

If not for her professional demeanour Quinn would have let her relief show on her face there and then. _Finally_, after two long weeks on the road, she had a solid trail to follow. "How far up ahead are the ruins?"

"'Bout half a kilo," Yalia said shakily. She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself, before using her shotgun to try and rise to her feet. Quinn, quick on the uptake, moved forwards to assist the woman – a gesture that was much appreciated, going by Yalia's relaxed, if shaky exhale. "You can't miss it, it's got this big bloody broken statue on it. Entrance is halfway collapsed and the statue's covered with vines and moss but it still sticks out," she said as soon as she was on her feet. She had one hand against a tree trunk, to keep steady. "I've already checked it – there's nothing inside, it's just a round room." Then she smirked, a hint of smugness behind the fatigue on her face. "Should be real easy for you now."

Quinn allowed herself a smile and a nod. "Thank you, Yalia. The assistance, and the information, is much appreciated. But are you sure you're good to walk?"

"Pft," the bounty huntress shrugged. "Not dead yet. I can keep walking," she said hotly, taking a step forward, then another. Quinn watched with equal parts curiosity and reluctance as Yalia made it about ten meters, before stumbling slightly and grabbing onto a nearby tree for support. "Oh, fuck me… This… might be a long trip." She sighed, and took a deep breath. "Well, only two kilos to the nearest road… I figure I'll make it before nightfall," she said as she turned around to smile at Quinn. Cold sweat still matted her forehead, but at the very least she looked a bit livelier. "By the way; the person who told me where to find his trail? She's in Bilgewater. Real frigid bitch by the looks of it, and two-faced to boot."

"Thank you," Quinn nodded, "for the information and the assistance. Are you entirely sure you'll be able to make the journey to the road?"

"Well, there's only one way to find out now, isn't there?" Yalia responded with a cheeky grin. "Worst comes to worst I'll crawl all the way. No way in hell am I spending a minute longer on this asshole's tail." She coughed again. "So help me, as soon as I get ho-Ohshit!" She yelped loudly as she stumbled again, but managed to retain her balance without using a tree. "Gods above… As soon as I get home I'm getting shitfaced. Then I'm selling all this – no more bounty hunting for me. Fuck that."

Sighing and smiling despite herself, Quinn quickly strode over to the former bounty huntress. "Yalia," she called, unclipping a small piece of brass from her chest and placing it in the other woman's hand. "If you've tracked him that long you'll need some proper rest first," she said. "Take this to Captain Crownguard in Demacia, and tell him you helped me on a mission. He'll see to it that you're tended to."

At first Yalia seemed flabbergasted – a whole variety of confused syllables left her mouth, before she finally regained her composure, smiling sadly. "T-Thank you, ma'am. I'll, er… I'll tell that Crownlord bloke to send some people to… Uhm… I don't know, escort you back or something? Damn, I'm bad at this," she said, shaking her head and turning slowly, maintaining her balance as she started her trek to the main road. "Uhm… Thanks again, ma'am," she said sheepishly.

Quinn merely nodded and smiled, offering a small salute as the former bounty huntress waddled away. She'd send Valor overhead to scour the area after she apprehended her target – for now, sadly, their mission came first.

All traces of casual behaviour disappeared the moment Yalia disappeared into the foliage – with her determination set and focus reforged, she darted forwards again, dashing past trees at such a speed her peripheral view started blurring. Half a kilo, she said – five hundred meters, and she had already covered one – two, now. Above her she heard Valor shriek again – he must have spotted the run. When she reached the halfway mark her keen eyesight started picking up traces that verified Yalia's story – blood caked several leaves leading forwards, and the bark of a tree close by had shattered under the impact of a small bullet. _Good_, she thought, _almost there_.

Lo and behold, at a hundred and fifty meters left, she saw. It was actually quite well hidden by normal standards – centuries of shrubbery and foliage had done well hiding the ruin from sight. From afar it seemed like a chapel or a crypt, a small, cylindrical building with a stone door that had, over time, crumbled along the top half. _Perfect,_ she thought, slowing her pace down to a stalk. Wordlessly, she held out her arm, and within moments, Valor was perched there, soundless, but focused – there was a glare to his eyes that belied his calm appearance.

Silently, footstep by silent footstep, she crept closer to the temple. Yalia had been true to her word – even from twenty meters away, Quinn could see the bloodstains trailing across the leaves and up the stone door. How the deserter had managed to scale it with a shredded arm – a _very _shredded arm, by the looks of all the blood – was beyond her. Nonetheless, the questions could come later, when the target was in a cell in Demacia; not here, barely ten meters from his hiding place.

Closer and closer she crept, and in synchrony with her distance to the building she _felt_ Valor's body tense. There was an unspoken plan, a mutual agreement without words or communication, in their posture. Born from years of working together, they'd achieved a rate of synchronicity, of _understanding_, that other falconers and beast users could only dream of. As such, it was only natural that their arrest would go off without a hitch.

She stopped in front of the ruined door, crouched low, with Valor on one arm and her crossbow in the other.

And then they engaged.

Valor shot off her arm just as she leapt upwards, crossbow already aimed dead-centre before her. The Demacian Eagle let out a loud shriek, a scare tactic they'd employed countless times before, and in response, Quinn came to rest on the ruined edge of the door, her bow aimed right at –

_A breeze?_

Quinn's mind processed that something was off _long_ before her eyes actually adjusted to the dark – not that they needed much time to, with the ominous, dim red light emanating from the center of the room. That, coupled with the fact that there was a _breeze_ in a building with no windows or excess vents, told her immediately that this was _much _more than a simple one-room ruin. Crossbow still aimed in front of her, she used her free hand to pull a lighter from her pocket, striking it once. While the flame was small, the lighting it proved was enough to guide her forward. She dismounted from the stone half-door, dropping to the cold floor just as Valor signalled the all-clear, and crouched down.

Again, she shuddered to herself – her target was losing a _lot_ of blood; she had to hurry – her orders were to apprehend him alive, so he could be dealt with in a 'just' manner befitting of their proud city state. If he died now… She frowned to herself. If her target died she'd be sending that young woman to a guaranteed apprehension.

That would _not_ stand.

Readying her crossbow, she strode forward, keeping her pack of medical supplies within arm's reach. The blood trail was erratic, as though her target had stumbled and fell, thus justifying the large pool of blood. What it _didn't_ explain was the source of the dim red lights.

_Runes,_ she thought with a click of her tongue, _or something very close to it. Is this… Is this blood magic?_

From the pool of blood, a downright lavish array of runic markings had lighted up, forming an almost ethereal pathway to the end of the small crypt. They were written in a language she couldn't even begin to comprehend, an amalgam of brash tribal markings and abstract shapes and lines that seemed more suited to the Void Walker's robe than a simple ruin's floor. The blood trail continued onward, and as she stepped forward the breeze assaulted her again, filling her nostrils with a riverside scent. Her eyes narrowed.

There was a passage ahead.

Further and further she crept, until she found the offending orifice – at the end of the runic pathway it seemed as though a set of stones had given way, each sinking lower than the former in order to form an elaborate yet crude spiral staircase, descending into what she assumed would be some kind of spring beneath the river, or at the very least a cavern near it.

Those cramped quarters spelled murder on her tactics, though – if she was looking at a series of narrow hallways, Valor's effectiveness would see a rapid decline; not to mention her partner was basically a sitting duck, or, well, a sitting eagle. Sighing to herself, she started formulating a plan – the scent of the riverside meant that wherever this passage lead_ had_ to exit along the Serpentine River, and the fact that the breeze was striking her with such gusto meant it was likely close by, and had a very large mouth at the side of… wherever it exited.

Steeling her resolve, she turned to her trusted companion and put her plan into motion.

"Val," she called to eagle. "This tunnel leads somewhere that has an entrance next to the river. I want to fly ahead and find it – something that lets a breeze of this size through has got to be a cavern of sorts. We'll meet up there – and catch this guy."

Valor, to his credit, only shot her as incredulous a look an eagle could, before squawking once in affirmation and spreading his wings, taking flight through the ruined doorway.

Turning back to the staircase, Quinn took a deep breath, before descending down into the abyss.

* * *

His time in the Freljord had been good.

No, scratch that – it had been _very_ good. Now, being the individual he was, it was quite rare for him to actually _emphasize_ an experience. He liked to think of himself as a very simple person, despite his reputation – he had no little tags or definitions, no hype, no melancholy or nonchalance; that which was good was good, and that was good enough, and that which was bad was bad, and that lead to a curbstomp – normally at his own hands, and not at all because of his actions. Well, at least not always because of his actions – eh, details.

He _did_ say he was a simple person, didn't he?

As such, when something was actually good (or bad) enough to make him add a little descriptor – even the tiniest of ones, like a simple 'very' – it usually meant whatever event was involved was something major, and majorly successful at that.

Such could easily describe his time in the Freljord. He had, at first, thought he'd simply be paying the Avarosan territory a visit to have a drink with his old friend, Gragas. This, surprisingly, marked the first time in a long, long while where his predictions had actually been an underestimation. The 'drink' in question was more of a string of fun and havoc, in which he and Gragas had crawled from one bar-slash-tavern-slash-drinking spot to the next, cleaning out entire barrels of grog and showing the Avarosan people what the word 'bar fight' _really_ meant.

So what if it had scored him the ire of almost every citizen in Rakelstake? It wasn't as though there was anyone there who could _do_ anything to The Champ.

Such were the merry recollections of Jax, the Grandmaster at Arms, as he enjoyed a comfortable stroll down the side of the Serpentine River, occasionally pausing to polish his trusty brass lamppost – usually against some poor bear or wolf's facial fur. Yes, his time in the Freljord had been a hearty one indeed, and although he had received quite an (ignored) earful from Queen Ashe, the fact that Tryndamere had grinned at him when his wife wasn't looking showed him at least he and Gragas had gained another drinking buddy out of the ordeal.

Nonetheless, his time in the Avarosan territory had to be cut short, due to a notification from the Institute. That Kolminye woman had apparently gotten wind of his activities in Rakelstake and threatened to have him reverse-summoned if he didn't 'cease his foolishness' immediately. As if she was his boss. He'd prepared quite the earful to give her when he got back, that was for sure. For now, though, he enjoyed his little stroll back to the Institute. It wasn't as though he was passive-aggressively spiting the High Councillor by strolling _extra_ slowly – not at all. It was merely a beautiful day; why not enjoy it to its fullest?

It was at this very moment that something very particular caught his eye; there, in the distance, a giant hole was carved into the side of a small mountain – a cave mouth, almost in the form of a real mouth. Normally such a thing wouldn't even pique the interest of the Grandmaster at Arms, really – after all, what could possibly be interesting about a cave? Caves were smelly, damp places fit for insects and bats and people like that Laurent woman – not a Champion like himself. What was _unique_, though, was the fact that this cave mouth was weeping bats like it was no tomorrow.

Bats did not like light – the Grandmaster knew this much, no, _proved_ this much; he even put it to test once by shining a floodlight into Kolminye's face. So whatever could cause such a large amount of them to flee into the bright midday sun normally meant something interesting nearby. Interesting somethings nearby often meant opportunities for detours and side-trips – and detours and side-trips meant more ways to spite the High Counc-er, more ways to _enjoy_ this _beautiful_ day.

At that, the Grandmaster at Arms reached his decision; he shifted his pack, tightened his grip on his trusty brass lamppost, and started his trek towards the frowning cave mouth.

* * *

After a few tense, claustrophobic moments of travel, Quinn had finally exited the narrow, tightly-wound passageway and stepped into a monumental cavern. She had been moving on a downward slope for most of the journey so she had gathered she was somewhere beneath the Serpentine River now. What she wasn't expecting was the sheer magnitude of the cavern – in the bright light flowing through a massive tear in the ceiling she could see stalagmites hanging _easily_ three-hundred or so meters above her. The crack in the cavern roof _flooded_ it with light, a phenomenon she was sure Luxanna would take inherent joy in explaining, and in that misty light she could see the makings of an ancient ruin that made even _her_ gape.

From where she was standing now, a simple rock jutted out against an ornamental pathway carved into the side of the stone; the attention to detail, with every tile holding a different rune and every little part of the handrail having an intricate floral design, left her speechless. How in the hell had all _this_ stayed hidden for so long? And so close to Demacia no less? In the back of her mind, behind the professional code driving her to track and apprehend her target as soon as possible, she made a note of inform Luxanna of this place – she could relay it to the Prodigal Explorer.

Slowly, her eyes followed the elaborate stone walkway, easily wide enough to fit five men shoulder-to-shoulder, and started taking in the details as she darted forwards, leaping over the handrail and onto the path. Above her, bats were pouring out from between the stone formations, fleeing towards the crack in the cavern ceiling as though a bird of prey itself was on their heels. There were hundreds of them, easily, seeing like a swarm of bees from where she stood – and then she saw him.

Even more than two-hundred meters away, she could tell the deserter was in bad shape. He was almost drunkenly shambling forwards, clutching his right arm – the tanned leather of his coat was stained black from the blood, even from this distance. She couldn't see his face through the mane of dark hair cascading down his back and across his shoulders, but she wagered he must have been grimacing with every step. Despite herself, she felt worry bloom in her chest – he had lost enough blood to _kill_ a normal man; the fact that he was still walking alone beggared belief.

But even the strongest willed men could not stave off death forever – criminal or no, that man needed help.

With that in mind she darted forwards – he had gained quite a bit of ground, as was heading towards an altar suspended in the middle of the cavern, at the centre of the bright light flooding the room. He was much higher on the upward slope as well – the statues lining the side of the walkway further ahead meant this was likely a ceremonial area. As she continued her silent dash forwards she did her best to remain undetected – hopefully he wouldn't even hear her approach. It would be quick and simple – she'd take him down and restrain him, and get to work on his injury. The rest of her plan… As much as she hated to admit it, the rest of her plan depended on hope; hope that she could get him to the main road and to a healer before he passes on.

And at that precise moment, one of the runes she stepped on crack.

It was odd, the way a simple _crack_ of stone could echo across a cavern and make it sound as though a whole cupboard of glass had been poured onto the floor. Even the bats' incessant chirping was drowned out by the way the simple noise became a cacophony. Her heart nearly stopped along with her footsteps – of _all _the things that could go wrong…

Slowly, her target stumbled to the side, resting his uninjured arm against a statue next to him, and slowly turned around.

Again, Quinn found herself beginning to worry – the pallor of his skin was nothing short of nightmarish; with a bit more than a hundred meters between them, Quinn could see the veins spanning his cheeks with clarity. Bloodshot eyes gazed at her, blinking away cold sweat and dizziness as it took in her features – and to her horror, recognition dawned in them when he saw the blue and gold colour scheme representing Demacia.

Then his eyes dropped, and he saw the crossbow in her hand – the one she had, in her worry, forgot to holster.

She could have slapped herself then and there – what a _rookie_ mistake to make.

"Now…" She began, her lips suddenly dry, much to her ire. "Now don't freak out okay?"

That, obviously, was the wrong choice of words.

Summoning yet more of the willpower that kept him from death's door, Quinn's target wrapped his fingers around the statue's base and gave it a hard tug. The two-or-so meter stone display tumbled onto the walkway and, due to the sheer slope, started tumbling right towards her. Her target didn't wait a second longer – with a pained grunt she could hear even from that distance, he broke into a dead sprint, or at least what could pass as one for his nearly-dead body. Despite injury and blood loss, despite fatigue and dizziness – the man could run for his life if he needed to.

Quinn grit her teeth as the statue came rolling towards her. "Garret!" She yelled after her target, finally resorting to using his first name, hoping to at least stall him, or make him pause. "Garret, don't be stupid! You'll kill yourself!" She clicked her tongue. The statue tumbling towards her was just wide enough to force her to time her leap right if she wanted to avoid it – and to make matters worse, Garret was already pulling another from its perch. She took a deep breath – the young man was no doubt going to ignore anything and everything she said from here on. If wanted to help him now – if she wanted to _save_ him – she'd have to _force_ him to accept the gesture.

With several loud thuds the first statue neared her. She bent her knees, barely blinking as she focused. Even her heart rate slowed, granting her just that tiny bit of extra help she needed. When the circular, tiki-esque tube was about to meters from her, she braced her legs, and _leapt._

The feeling of that statue scuffing her heels was one she wouldn't soon want to experience again.

She landed on both her feet, cracking more runes as she tucked into a roll, and just she straightened out a tremendous _crash_ met her ears. She actually flinched backwards – her hand went for the crossbow she had holstered when she started her pursuit, but to her relief she didn't need to use it. Garret had managed to pull the second statue off its pedestal, and when it had struck the walkway it had promptly _shattered_ the stone path beneath its weight. Quinn took several steps forwards, inspecting the damage – by the time extra parts of the walkway had stopped chipping and falling off, a good five meter gap stood between her and her target. "Dammit, Garret…" She grit her teeth again. "I'm trying to _help _you!"

"I do not…" Garret's voice was weak, even to her own trained senses. Yet no amount of fatigue, no amount of blood loss could make it weak enough to hide the disdain it held. He was struggling to catch his breath, and a trickle of blood had poured from the corner of his mouth. He cast her a dismissive glance as he took a few steps back. "…I do not _want…_ your _help_…!"

"Dammit, Garret…" She cursed softly as he turned tail and hobbled towards the centre altar. Her brow creased with frustration and worry – despite him being her mission, she really _was_ set on helping him; that wound was looking worse with every glance she took at it, and she truly wondered if it wouldn't be necessary to amputate the whole limb. Nonetheless, a simple gap would not deter her – a few quick hops backwards put her at a suitable distance to clear the chasm before her with a good leap. She glanced up at the altar again…

…just in time to see her target collapse right before he disappeared out of sight.

She clicked her tongue again. The harsh angle of the walkway rendered her incapable of determining Garret's condition now. So, with nothing else to, she bent her knees, swayed back _just_ a bit, and launched herself forward with a speed even she was unused to. The distance she'd put between herself and the chasm disappeared in the blink of an eye and through a combination of skill, timing and technique, she had leapt just as her heel hit the edge of the broken walkway.

The five-meter gap was cleared in but a second, and with a harsh _thud_ Quinn landed on the other side, tucking into a roll and popping back onto her feet at a speed downright unnatural in the eyes of anyone who didn't know the Ranger by now. She opted this time to keep her crossbow holstered, and instead pulled the small first-aid kid from her small pack, making sure to keep it in plain sight as she rushed towards her target.

She had barely laid eyes on his slumped form when she heard the ominous sound of a pistol getting cocked.

A standoff, she realized as she gazed at her target. He was slumped against a small pedestal in the middle of the large altar-like platform, sitting with his back resting against it. He looked as though he could keel over any moment, with those bloodshot eyes and pale skin, and the erratic, laboured breathing ease that thought. Yet still, despite everything, he managed to keep the loaded pistol aimed at her.

A glint caught her eye then, and for but a moment she allowed herself to be distracted. An old, withered bladed weapon, seemingly made of cracked bronze, was floating atop the pedestal Garret was leaning against. It seemed brittle – as every other item in the cavern – and once more Quinn wondered for but a moment how this had not been discovered yet.

A cough from Garret forced her to refocus her attention, and cautiously, she took a step forward. "Are you…" Garret heaved, his eyes unfocused and hazy. "… Are you the one who… who tracked me all the way from Mogron…?" He allowed himself a bitter chuckle. "You... Demacia's Wings… You are as… as good as they say… ma'am…"

She took another step forward. "Garret," she started, her voice low and urgent. "Please, _please _listen to me; you have no idea how much blood you lost. If you don't stop this, Garret… If you don't _let me help you_," she said with emphasis, "you… you're going to die, Garret…"

Garret, much to his credit, responded with a tired chuckle. "You… You think I am a dead man now?" He rasped. "I've been dead since I l-left… Thirteen years now," he said morosely. "I… I barely even troubled you…" He heaved. "I just wanted peace… T-To be left alone… and you wouldn't even grant me that…"

"None of that matters right now, Garret," Quinn said, taking another cautious step forwards. "As far as I'm concerned now, there's no Demacia – no infractions, no desertions, no crimes… Just a wounded, dying man in front of me," she said, raising the first-aid kit, "and the tools to try and save him, right here in my hand."

Garret started coughing at this, a few chuckles worked in between the fits, and before long it had evolved into an almost tragic bout of laughter. All the while, the pistol remained trained on Quinn's centre of mass. "You… You really think…" He rasped, locking eyes with her. "I… I mean no disrespect, ma'am," he said affably, "but… I refuse… to be left at the mercy of… of one of Demacia's lapdogs."

"Now I know you're not serious," Quinn responded crisply, taking yet another step forward. She was barely five meters from Garret's fallen form now. "You've fought tooth and nail for the peace you wanted, Garret. _Thirteen years_, you ran, hid and fought – I refuse to believe you're stubborn enough to let that all go to waste." From the corner of her eye, she saw _his_ silhouette on the ground – as quickly as the shadows of his wingspan appeared, they were gone – hidden outside the ray of light.

_Perfect_, she though. _Atta boy, Val._

Garret chuckled again, oblivious to the bird of prey stalking the shadows. "Well, ma'am," he started. "You… are correct that I've fought for so long… Heh… A few years ago that show of re... reverse psychology would have worked," he rasped. "But look at me now; tired, battered, wounded… Dying here… or going to back to Demacia, to rot in a cell," at this point his voice grew harsher, _fiercer_, "for a crime I did not even commit… I… I see no difference, ma'am." He made a show of applying a faint bit of pressure to the pistol's trigger. "I… am not going back, ma'am," he said ruefully, and for a but a moment, Quinn's sharp eyesight observed the cloud of sorrow in his eyes. "The D-Demacian Ideal… It took everything from me…" He said with a frown. "I… I will not let it have my life as well. S-So… Either use that h-hawk like speed of yours – draw your bow, and end this now," he said icily, "or gods above, I'll have the Crown send someone who will – in response to a murder I _did_ commit."

The statement – the _threat_ – left a silence in the air the likes of which Quinn had never experienced before, and with a sinking feeling, she realized… For all the courteousness he had shown so far, he was not going to budge. Her entire body tensed against her will – it was a realization that the worst had a _very_ likely chance of coming to pass. She had a plan, though – she was hoping she wouldn't need to initiate it, because of _risky_ it was – but now she had no choice. She twitched fingers of her free hand, hoping it would seem to Garret as though she was planning to reach for her crossbow – and then with a simple movement, she formed the hand signal that started the ball rolling.

Garret had a single, precious second to ponder just what the hell his pursuer had done.

Calling it an arrow was inadequate – like a speeding bullet, Valor came diving out from the shadows, tearing towards the fallen deserter at such a speed the poor man could only look on in confusion and shock as the eagle's talon's raked outwards, intent on seizing the pistol right from the weakened man's grasp. It was all part of Quinn's plan – Valor would disarm him and she would apply medical aid – whether Garret wanted her to or not.

It was a very good plan, given its spur-of-the-moment nature – but in her worry, in her _haste_, Quinn had forgotten to factor one element into her plans:

Outside involvement.

It happened in the blink of an eye – just before Valor could seize the pistol a sharp, jagged rock came flying from the shadows, intercepting the bird's course and making him hastily spread its wings to alter its course.

Quinn was already reaching for her crossbow by the time the purple and blue blur leapt from the darkness. As her hand closed around her grip she heard the wind whistle about an object as the intruder took a vicious swing at her partner at a speed even she struggled to keep track of. She wasted no more time – as Valor backed away from their assailant she drew her crossbow with every ounce of the hawk-like speed Garret had mentioned, and fired three precise, controlled bolts at the invader.

She then _felt_ her jaw drop as all three were parried out of mid-air by a flailing weapon.

For a moment, silence reigned as Quinn heard her bolts clatter to the floor – and during the lull in action, her eyes widened. Before her stood a face – and a weapon – she had come to know all too well. A pit of ice formed in her stomach as spiteful remembrance invaded her mind; here stood someone she had _never_ wanted to meet outside the Fields of Justice. In the breeze coming from above, purple clothing swayed a blue tussle attached to a hood danced almost _ominously_ in Quinn's own opinion, and the multiple blue eyes staring at her from under that hood did nothing to ease her sudden fear and worry.

Before her, a battered brass lamppost twirled ominously.

She felt her teeth gnash as grim realization set in.

"Jax…"

…_Shit._

"Well," the Grandmaster at Arms spoke smugly, standing with himself positioned right between Quinn and her target. "When I decided to see what was making the bats so crazy I wasn't expecting this."

"Grandmaster," Quinn addressed him neutrally. "May I ask why you attacked us?"

"You sicced your chicken on an injured man," Jax shrugged. "That's reason enough, ain't it?"

Quinn took a deep breath. The situation had gone from precarious to nightmarish in a matter of seconds, and the Grandmaster's aloof demeanour wasn't helping matters. "Jax," she started again, cautiously. "You're interfering in Demacian state business. That man –"

"It's 'Demacian business' to go around kicking injured people while they're down?" Jax interrupted her, tilting his head quizzically. In one hand, the battered brass lamppost was still pointed to her – and the amount of trepidation she felt was no less because of it. The other hand, though, quickly moved to a small pouch on his hip, and after a moment of fishing around in it, Jax withdrew what he was looking for – a small vial filled with red liquid.

"That's…" Quinn felt her jaw drop. "What… How did you even…?"

"I'm just that good," Jax shrugged again, before turning to look at Garret's fallen form. "Down this, buddy," he said, passing the small potion to the deserter. "You look like you could use the boost. And you can put that down," he said, motioning to the pistol still clutched in the young man's hand. "I ain't letting this woman near you. Drink up, heal up, get up and follow the pathway behind you. I'll just be a minute longer," Jax said, turning to face Quinn again. He took up the fighting stance he always used on the Summoner's Rift, and Quinn felt adrenaline kick in merely at the sight of it. "I just need to get the rest of your meds," Jax said ominously, eyeing the small field aid kit Quinn still had clutched in her hand.

For a moment, Quinn could do nothing but stare at the look of complete _gratitude_ that bloomed on Garret's face. Bloodshot eyes nearly _glowed_ with new hope as he pulled the stopper out of the vial and started drinking the potion as though he hadn't had a drop to drink in days.

The ball of ice in Quinn's stomach intensified. Her options were running out, she feared – while she and Valor made a near-unstoppable team, this was _Jax_ they were facing. The Grandmaster at Arms, Valoran's greatest weapons master – and this time, Jax didn't have any silly sanctions holding him down. "Jax, _please_," she said urgently. "The charges made against him -"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard the little speeches," Jax interrupted her casually, looking at Garret. "Saying something like that, and meaning it? Shit, buddy, you must really hate that place." He turned back to face Quinn. "Alright now look here, Chickadee. I've got about _this_ much time," he indicated with his fingers, "to get back to the Institute of War, and every minute I spend here is more reason for Kolminye to shit on me. So I'll cut you a deal, Ranger: Leave that kit here and report to your superiors; tell them Jax took your little suspect down to the Institute, where he won't get manhandled for answers he might not even have." He shrugged. "You get your mission complete, I get to placate that demonic woman with some political contribution or some shit like that and this guy," he motioned to Garret, "gets himself cleared of all charges, all in the same day. I win, you win, he wins, we can all get back to our lives and forget this ever happened." He locked eyes her, twirling his lamppost in one hand. "Think carefully, Ranger; I only compromise once."

Valor let out a defiant squawk the moment had finished speaking, and Quinn was, for the first time in her life, relieved that nobody took the eagle's attitude seriously. She spared a glance at Garret, still pale, but at least looking a bit livelier, but for some odd reason he was fumbling with his knee. "You alright there, bud?" Jax turned to him again, apparently having seen the fidgeting from his peripheral view.

"N-Nothing, sir…" Even his voice sounded livelier. "Just… Just pins and needles in my legs, sir."

"Don't worry about it," Jax shrugged. "Take your time – I can keep her at bay as long as I need to," he said reassuringly, before facing Quinn again. "Well, Ranger? What's it gonna be?"

Sheer, sheer willpower prevented her from caving and agreeing, and putting an end to this frustrating mission once and for all. However, her sense of duty won out – Jax was, for all intents and purposes, a mercenary – while he may have been professional, his loyalty was still for sale; so many things could go wrong with Jax's proposal it wasn't even funny. She sighed to herself, dismayed at the horrendous turn a simple track-and-arrest had taken, and steeled her resolve. "While your offer of cooperation is appreciated, Grandmaster," Quinn said evenly, "my orders stand. Garret is a key witness to a crucial case overseen by Demacian law – and I was instructed to bring him back, no matter the cost."

"Damn shame," Jax shook his head, his grip on his lamppost tightening ever so slightly. "Well I've got a dying man to tend to – so let's make this quick, shall we?"

Deathly silence followed, and tensions mounted among the parties involved. Between a glaring eagle, a morose looking ranger, Valoran's greatest weapons master and a poor sod who could never even have _imagined_ being part of a predicament like this, there was a degree of danger in the air. For but a moment, the only sounds were those of a whispering breeze – before part of a stalactite above them broke off, plunging to the floor and shattering with a loud _crack_.

That was the cue.

The forms of the two fighters became blurs and they lunged – one forwards, one backwards, and the cacophonic orchestra of combat filled the empty cavern.

Quinn had opted to put as much distance between her and Jax as possible. Bolts flew from her crossbow at a frantic pace as the purple-clad mercenary charged at her. She lost track of almost everything around her apart from Valor's position – one could not afford to think of anything else when fighting the Grandmaster at Arms, _especially_ not during such a precarious situation.

Valor squawked above her, a cue she recognized as a sign of terrible danger, and she halted her motions and hopped back without a single thought. For a brief moment she felt a different kind of breeze pass in front of her face, and the scent of brass and burning wick filled her nostrils. She blinked, and to her horror Jax had closed the distance between them faster than she could ever have expected him to, and due to Valor's warning she had just avoided getting her block knocked off. It served as a terror-fuelled reminder to Quinn that this was _Jax_ she was fighting – and it wasn't going to be as simple as dodge, shoot and repeat.

Valor dove down towards them in an attempt to get Jax away from Quinn, but the Grandmaster was relentless – Valor's talons raked nothing but thin air. The Grandmaster had easily predicted the eagle's course of flight and, in a testament to his skill in combat, had dodged the aerial assault _and_ continued his vicious assault on the Ranger with one swift movement. The roles had been reversed – now it was Quinn who was on the run, desperately backstepping and hopping around, trying to dodge strikes from an absolutely improbable weapon.

Suddenly it didn't seem so strange that even people like Shyvana were wary of Jax.

She switched to different tactics – she feinted to the right, acting as though she were about to try and leap away. Jax, ever on the uptake, moved to strike, not at her but at the spot she would soon be – she exploited this and ducked into a roll in the other direction. While she lacked the speed and elegance of Shauna Vayne it proved beneficial nonetheless; the Grandmaster had struck miss, and just as Quinn straightened out and aimed at the fighter's back –

She recoiled as a loud _crack_ signalled a punishing blow to the side of her helmet, and spot of white appeared in her vision as she stumbled back blindly, almost tripping over her own feet in the process. A stinging pressure pulsed just above her right temple, and a quick touch to the side of her helmet determined it had been dented beyond use – the bent steel pressed against the side of her head, hindering her thoughts and movements.

Finally coming out of her stumble, she yanked the gold-plated helm off. Her raven hair tumbled down around her face, and a quick touch-and-inspect revealed she now sported a gash along the side of her face. "H-How…" She turned back to face her opponent. The Grandmaster still stood with back towards her, facing the spot the had feinted towards, but his posture showed he didn't need to face her to hurt her – his left hand clutched the lamppost just below the lamp itself, while the right had a hold around the middle. The uprooted end of the post, however, was pointing in her direction, making his attack obvious.

It had been foolish of her to assume he only attacked with the top-end of the post.

"Your move, Ranger," Jax said simply, looking over his shoulder at her. He still hadn't even bothered to turn around. Normally such behaviour from a foe would be infuriating, but right now Quinn couldn't be bothered with getting angry. Anger lead to a loss of control, of inhibition, of _sense_, and against Jax such actions would be nothing more than a death sentence.

Frowning to herself, she made peace with the situation at hand.

Diplomacy was no longer an option.

"Now!" A simple word had relayed an entire battle plan – bravely, Valor folded his wings in again dove towards Jax, his talons arching and seeking blood once more. For a moment it seems almost as though Jax's shoulders sagged a bit, as if he were disappointed with what he saw. Nonetheless, as Quinn herself shot to the side in order to gain a window, Jax himself tensed up – and started his counter attack.

He moved like water, Quinn grudgingly admitted as she kept herself light on her feet. There were no unnecessary movements, no openings for Jax to defend and no errors to hinder his skills. The lamppost twirled again, leaving trails of wispy smoke in the air and in a blink, Valor was on a crash course with the lamp itself. He dove to the side just as Jax had come around full circle, and two bolts from Quinn's crossbow harmlessly clattered off the shaft. The Grandmaster had his eyes on her now, as her eagle was retreating and preparing for another lunge. In a panic she fired more bolts at him, hoping to at least stave off his advance until Valor could dive again – but it was for naught. Her bolts struck either brass or thin air, and at one stage the Grandmaster even caught one in mid-air with his bare hand.

Three quick steps and he was in her face again – her aim was hampered as she desperately ducked and dived, and her heart leapt every time the edge of the lamppost scuffed against her leathers or nicked her shoulder pads. Even those tiny impacts were enough to make her jerk slightly from the sheer force. She grit her teeth again, desperation flashing on her features as she sidestepped, ducked, dodged and rolled in a futile effort to put some distance between her and Jax. Absentmindedly she noticed Valor going for a dive again, just before she ducked low to avoid another punishing shot to the side of the head. In her mad rush she had lost track of her companion, and upon hearing his disappointed cry she reckoned he was someone up above again – more than likely having failed another attack.

She coughed suddenly as the lamppost caught her square in the stomach, and sheer flexibility prevented her from falling over her feet again and keeling over. Once more she took a leap back, ignoring the hollow pain in her stomach, and once more it proved futile – she managed to avoid three attacks before a full-circle flourish from Jax caught her on the knee. She could have sworn she heard something crack, as pain suddenly _blazed _across her leg, but even then she refused to falter. She _had_ to find some way to get away from.

Valor let out another cry, hoping to _at least_ draw the Grandmaster's attention as he came in for another dive – only this time he altered his course. He dove straight down, aiming for the solid stone floor of the altar, and at the last minute spread his wings and pulled up just a bit. The speed from the dive sent the eagle gliding towards the weapons master mere _centimetres_ above the floor. This was his plan, after all – if he could not strike from above, he would strike from below.

Quinn knew of Valor's plan even before she even saw him gliding towards the Grandmaster. It was a tactic they'd used times in the past – risky, yes, but a necessity in this case. If this didn't work, then… She shuddered as the lamppost struck her upper arm, rendering it half numb, and she pirouetted away – she was even beyond hoping now; all that mattered was minimizing the damage.

She got her window of opportunity moment Valor lunged.

The Grandmaster had seeing the eagle coming, true – it would have been insulting to imagine he wouldn't – but blocking or evading a low attack was a lot different from blocking a lower one – and the shift in the fighter's stature was just what she needed. As Jax spun to drive the eagle away, Quinn forewent any pretences of traditional ranged combat; she dashed forwards, firing one or two bolts from her crossbow. Of course they had been parried, knocked away mid-flight, but that had set up her escape plan. In a near-suicidal display Quinn leapt right at Jax, drawing her knees up readying herself to try and take one last attack.

The lamppost collided with the guard on her left arm _just_ as her feet nimbly touched down on Jax's knee, and she let out a hiss as she felt both the guard _and_ the arm break as though they were glass. Pain shot up her arm, focusing itself _right_ between her eyes, but even then she did not falter. Drawing upon what was left of her own strength and stamina, she put as much energy as possible into her legs, ignoring her stinging kneecap and kicking off her opponent's leg. The leap was _more_ than enough, and as she twirled in mid-air she noted with relief that there was more than enough ground between them now.

Her feet slammed down on the runic floors, and a single tile cracked in conjunction with the pain that shot up her knee – but she didn't let this act to her detriment. Despite all her pain, she landed in a readied stance, her crossbow still trained on the Grandmaster. As the final part of their disengagement tactic, Valor rose up and circled around before diving towards Jax one last time, brushing past her in the progress.

And just as it seemed her plan had reached fruition, everything went right to hell.

In a twisted way, neither of them was responsible – Quinn had not taken a single action and Jax had merely followed his instinct. But when Jax had effortlessly sidestepped her Eagle, Quinn saw something – or someone – she had almost forgotten. Garret had somehow made it to his feet; he was starting at the ground, catching his breath and clutching his arm – and Valor was barrelling right towards him.

"Val!"

Her cry did the exact opposite of what she intended it to do. Garret jumped in shock as he looked up, and she could see his amber eyes widen as he saw the giant bird of prey soaring towards him. With a startled cry, the deserter feebly tried to take a step back – and seemingly forgot about the pedestal he was resting against earlier.

Quinn had heard some soldiers talking about seeing traumatic events occur in slow motion. And she had always doubted those stories – until now.

Garret's descent seemed to take forever – his form slowly fell back, on a crash course with the broken bronze sword hovering over the pedestal. All it took was a tap from his shoulder as he twisted to try and right himself, the merest of impacts – and the brittle artefact shattered like glass, shards flying in all directions. The loud crash seemed to echo all across the cavern, not drowning out other sounds as much as it _consumed_ them – it seemed like an all-devouring echo that ran across the entire cavern…

…and in the brief second of silence that followed, Jax and Quinn both realized that something was about to go _horribly_ wrong.

The fading echo left a whisper – a whisper that slowly increased, in volume, in tempo, in ferocity, in _everything_, really; it seeped from between the stalactites, crawled from the small gaps between the runic tiles and rose from the abyssal depths surrounding the altar, until an almost _bestial_ wail reverberated off the stone walls around them. Tiles shook, stone shuddered and even the pillar of light seemed to dim in the face of the abhuman wail that was slowly deafening the two combatants. The shards of the sword that had flown in all directions started to tremble, pattering on the cold floor before levitating ominously, giving off the same crimson glow as the runes Quinn saw in the chapel that lead her here.

The shards started to hum and sizzle then, and finally the wail started dying down – first in ferocity, then in volume, and just before it disappeared entirely, it devolved into a ghostly, whispered giggle.

From the corner of her eye she saw Jax tense up. "Get back, woman!" He yelled to her, leaping back a distance even greater than she had, and just as she turned back to see what had spooked him –

The shards exploded with a mighty, downright otherworldly blast, and a _torrent_ of crimson smoke poured from it, writing and twisting and forming a makeshift typhoon around Garret and the pedestal. The cloud shot forwards, expanding at a rate she had _never_ seen smoke expand at before, and when the cloud slammed into her, her whole vision nearly went white. Absently, through the sudden severe ringing in her ears she could hear the runic tiles under get torn apart by a vicious force, and pain downright _flooded_ her already broken arm – it drenched the limb, burrowing down right to her marrow, leaving a hollow ache to accompany the feeling of nerve endings getting absolutely destroyed by _something_. She felt a strong hand grasp her by her free arm, and with a mighty pull the hue of red disappeared from her vision and she collided against a sturdy form, quickly regaining her footing.

"I told you to get back," she head Jax's voice inches from her ear. "Damn… Just what the fuck is this?"

Quinn willed herself to look, despite how weak she was feeling. Jax had pulled her away from the vortex of red smoke, but it was raging as bad as it was when it had erupted. She saw something then, which made her heart leap right up to her throat – the edge of the hazy vortex was _covered_ in weird blade-like forms, as though the smoke itself had solidified into a physical defence. It moved in tandem with the cyclone, a blanket of blades that kept intruders from whatever it guarded.

Nervously, Quinn took a chance and looked down at her arm. She had expected to see a mangled limb weeping blood onto the stone floors, so when she saw it was still just a simple fracture from Jax's weapon, the relief made her downright weak in the knees. "…Oi, oi! Look ali-Hey! What the…" Jax moved to support her as her body sank to the floor. She ended up sitting on her knees, using her good arm to steady herself on the ground.

It was at that precise moment that a near soul-splitting shriek of pain erupted from the centre of the vortex.

Quinn jumped slightly, the fright making her adrenaline kick in again. Her eyes widened as she remembered – her target was still inside that smoke. "Garret…" She breathed nervously as another scream ripped from her obscured target's throat. The screams he was uttering now… It shook her to her core. It relayed agony that could not described by simple words; a cry for help, for relief, for _peace_, that would not be given. A terrifying thought occurred to her; that mist had merely grazed her arm and she nearly blacked out… and now Garret was covered by it. She imagined the same pain she felt in her arm, spread across her whole body, and almost instinctively her breathing hitched and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. If he was experiencing that… In his current state, no less…

"Fuck this," Jax spoke up, turning around to face her. With one hand he slung his small backpack off, letting it drop to the ground, and with the other hand he held out his trusty lamppost towards her. "Hold this," he said flatly. "I'm going in there."

_You're mad_. The first thought that occurred to Quinn was one of outrage and shock – Grandmaster or no, the amount of pain that smoke caused – the sheer _danger_ it posed – was beyond even her description. And this arrogant idiot thought he could just walk in there like nothing was going to happen? "Like hell you will," she said through gritted teeth. "Do you… Do you have _any_ idea how much that smoke hurts?" she said angrily as she tried hopelessly to climb to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain her leg used as a form of protest. "I don't care how skilled you are – I'm… I'm not letting you –"

"Then good luck stopping me with that knee of yours," Jax shrugged, dropping his lamppost to the floor with a loud clang. "Unlike you I'm actually being sincere when I say I want to help him. So sit tight, Chickadee. I'll be right… back?" He trailed off, turning around to face the maelstrom of crimson smoke behind him. Quinn followed suit, leaning to the side to look past the Grandmaster's wide frame.

The typhoon was shrinking.

And while it was shrinking it had started to writhe even more – the blades of vapour pulsed and shifted and moved erratically as the cylindrical smoke storm rapidly shifted and changed shape, almost compressing itself into a smaller shape. It twisted and turned, pulsated and gyrated like a fluxing focus of magical energy, unstable and deadly, and all the while the maelstrom just kept getting _smaller_.

Eventually all that was left was a small, hovering cloud of vapour – and when that vapour started to disperse, Quinn could do nothing to stop a shocked gasp from escaping her.

Garret was kneeling behind the small pedestal, his head tucked low so his fringe his face from view. His right arm – his _injured_ arm, that had been shredded by buckshot – was extended beside him, parallel to the floor; the sleeve of the leather jacket he had been wearing had been shredded off completely, leaving a blackened, muscular, yet wiry arm exposed to the elements. That was the first cue that things were unnatural now – that, and the fact that the hand tipping the arm had four fingers instead of five. As if to add to the surrealism of the moment, a pulse of crimson light flared in the limb's fingertips, slowly travelling upwards towards the shoulder, and as it moved Quinn swore she could _see_ the pattern of the musculature hidden under the dark skin. Something was seriously wrong here.

Moving slowly, Garret lowered his arm, and twisted it inwards to examine more closely. This exposed the top side of the arm to the two Champions – and Quinn had to fight to repress a shudder. Suddenly she knew where those bronze sword shards went. Several gleaming spikes protruded from random spots on the arm, likely used to plug the wounds made by Yalia's shotgun, and this served only to add to the limbs already macabre appearance. Garret seemed awfully interested in his new limb. He kept staring at it, completely still, unmoving – Quinn couldn't even tell if he was still breathing or not.

"Shit…" Jax spoke up. "Hey, buddy! You still there?"

The question – regardless of its intent – proved to have the wrong effect. Garret shuddered, _violently_ at that, before looking up, and the sight made even Jax take a step back. Quinn grit her teeth as she looked upon Garret's face – or at least, the spot where his face used to be. The red smoke had not receded entirely. It formed a sort of veil across the deserter's face, its hue shifting, darkening and lightening and obscuring every possible facial detail except one – a part of slanted, downright _vicious_ looking, pure white eyes.

Those eyes… It seemed as though they were _hungering_, and that revelation alone made Quinn come to a grim realization:

That… That was _not_ Garret.

Jax had his lamppost ready before Quinn could even blink. "Who the fuck are you?" The Grandmaster demanded.

Garret – or at least, whatever was controlling him – merely tilted its head to the side, as though intrigued by the purple clad mercenary before him. For several moments it held that stance, not moving, not twitching, not even _breathing_ – and then the _thing_ uttered a giggle, a sound that chilled Quinn right to her stomach. Garret's voice was still there, but… There was something new to it, a presence of sorts _clinging_ to every syllable, imitating it with a feminine tongue and making even something as simple as a giggle seem sinister.

"C_**h**_al_**l**_e_**ng**_ers_**ss**_s…"

Quinn shuddered again. _That voice_…

Garret, or whatever possessed him, let off a downright _vicious_ grunt, and with an ominous rumble his form darkened. The red smoke that covered his face returned, rolling off his form in waves and hovering above him, dancing in the air like extensions of his own body. They coiled and shifted, some shrinking, some growing, and before their very eyes, the smoke formed blades – two standard, yet sinister arming swords glowed in the remainders of the crimson mist. Then the swords intensified, in both colour and mass, glowing brightly as a loud crackle signified the blades _solidifying_ themselves, becoming actual, _physical_ weapons.

"That's… Okay, that's new," Jax nodded, almost impressed.

"_**Fi**_i_**i**_iii_**iiii**_iii_**gh**_t…"

With a simple, gurgled command the two blades shot forwards, twirling like buzzsaws in the open cavern air and flying right at the Grandmaster. Jax grunted, half-grudgingly, before flourishing his lamppost, dodging one blade and almost easily knocking the other aside. But Garret's new tenant would not be bested so simply – the first sword moved of its own accord, turning upwards and flying into the air, dispersing into smoke before reforming itself in a barbed spear, while the other blade split into three crooked daggers that seemed to circle the room itself.

The spear was the first to commence an assault – it dove tip-first towards the Grandmaster, and upon colliding with his lamppost, flipped and twisted and twirled and struck in the way a master wield such a weapon would; it was as though an invisible spearman was duelling with Jax, and despite not even _scratching_ the fighter's defence, was doing a pretty damn good job too.

One too many impacts later and the spear, seemingly brittle, cracked like glass and halted its assault. The three daggers darting around the cavern took over the fight, each flying at Jax with the speed and precision of a throwing knife. These were a poor choice of weapons against the Grandmaster, however – Jax had already seen the consistency of the weapons, and with such little mass they proved no challenge; Jax's lamppost outright shattered the small daggers, and when the crimson spear attempted to reinitiate, it too was cloven in half by a well-timed strike from the Grandmaster.

"You'll need to do better than that," Jax said confidently. "Now how 'bout you let the boy go? Else I'll just have to beat you out of him."

"_**Truu**_uu_**u**_u_**ly**_yyy_**y**_…?" Garret's tenant sounded downright _excited_ at the notion.

"Yeah," Jax nodded, "truly."

The spirit controlling Garret let out an ominous chuckle, and clenched its mutated fist before letting out a downright _monstrous_ snarl. The red smoke, which had previously merely rolled off his form, _exploded_ outwards this time, swirling around him and arcing into the air forming a hundred small clouds, if not more. The tenant uttered another ominous chuckle, and every small bubble of smoke started to pulsate and shift, and before either of the heroes could comprehend it the cavern was _filled_ with hovering weapons of varying shapes and sizes: spears, swords and daggers accompanied kukris, shotels, flamberges and halberds. Several bows were fully nocked and drawn, and Quinn could _hear_ the firing hammers of several dozens of firearms cocking backwards.

"…Well, shit," Jax summarized their situation helpfully. Quinn felt her body begin to quiver – paltry quality or not, even Jax could not evade or parry all those weapons if they decided to attack. As for herself… She paled. A broken arm, a fractured knee, and the gods alone knew how many other injuries rendered her mobility basically non-existent. They were sitting ducks – and the entity controlling Garret's body seemed all too willing to exploit that. Slumping back, Quinn shut her eyes, expecting the worst to come – bracing herself for the death sentence.

"_**Diii**_ii_**i**_ii_**iie**_e_**ee**_-_**aaaa**_aaa_**rghh**_!"

Quinn's eyes snapped open as the spirit's command to kill morphed into an inhumane cry of agony and pain. With trembling sight she saw Garret's form twist and shudder where it knelt, and in conjunction several smoke-weapons around him trembled and cracked, some even _shattering_ and vaporising on the spot. "_**No**_oo_**oo**_…" She heard the spirit use Garret's voice to plead. "N_**ot**_… _**N**_ot ye_**ee**_e_**t**_… _**Ple**_ee_**aas**_ee, n_**ooo**_o…" It's cries went unheard – Garret's body jerked and shivered, before his now mutated arm reared back and slammed down on the floor. Stone shattered like glass under the fist, and a crater _easily _the size of Quinn's torso appeared under the impact. They felt the tremor all the way under their feet, and even Jax stumbled for a fraction of a second. Smoke-weapons started _exploding_ left and right, reverting to their crimson wisps and fleeing back into Garret's mutated arm, and amidst the chaos, they heard _his_ voice, pure and untainted:

"…get out…"

It started as a whisper, a mumbled plead amidst the cacophony of shattering blades and snapping wood, but gradually it got louder.

"…_get out…!"_

No, it was more than a plead – it was a threat, a _command_, an order of a magnitude that could gather obedience from even the most finicky of soldiers. Interlaced with both ire and a twisted sort of charisma, it was absolute – irrefutable.

"…_Get… __**OUT!**__"_ Garret's voice expanded by several octaves, surpassing the chaos around him to dance across stone walls and vast emptiness. His mutated fist rose again, and with yet another downward slam, more stones and runic shards were sent flying. His free arm – unhindered, unharmed, un_controlled_ – flew towards his face, the fingers sinking into the veil of crimson smoke, and with a wet, _sickening _rip, it tore a good chunk of the mist away. "This is my body…" He said with a raw voice, tired out from screaming and growling. "This… is _my_ body…" His left hand flew to his face again, tearing yet another chunk of the red smog away, and this time Quinn could see an emerald eye narrowed in fury. "You… will not… control me…" Quinn shuddered slightly – there was a determination, a resolution in his voice that reminded her of when he gave her that ultimatum earlier. There was no middle ground now. "I am in control…" She heard him say to himself, a mantra to dissuade whatever madness was pulling at his mind. Again, his left arm ripped a chunk of smoke from his face – by now she could see his teeth, bared in a ferocious snarl, and his mutated fist rose again, twitching and hesitating as though unsure who's command was more absolute. "I am in control…" He said again, his free hand's fingers digging into the stone runes below him so hard Quinn swore they'd crack at any moment.

It was then that the final ounce of resistance fell away.

"This is _my body!_" Garret roared, slamming his demonic fist down a final time like a judge passing the sentence. "You do _as I say!"_

In unison, the remaining crimson weapons shattered with a _deafening_ blast, bits and pieces of blade and hammer and wood and string flying _everywhere_ around him. The black arm pulsed like mad, almost _glowing_ from the activity as cloud after cloud of red smoke seeped back into its muscles. It was as though the darkness itself disappeared in tandem with the misty weapons, as though the pillar of light shining down from the ceiling _intensified_ in tandem with Garret's newfound force of will.

Until nothing but silence reigned.

In the dead stillness that followed Garret's triumph over whatever ailed him, Quinn's heartbeat hammered in her ears. Her target, the man who would gladly have chosen _death_ over apprehension at her hands, had just saved her – and Jax – from a downright _morbid_ fate; and going by the deserter's laboured breathing and vacant stare, Quinn doubted he was even aware of it. With a loud squawk, Valor returned from the shadows and perched himself on her shoulder, nuzzling against her cheek in a display of affection warranted from escaping certain doom. Patting him once, she tried to venture forwards, leaning her weight on her good arm and half-dragging herself, half-crawling towards Garret's location.

She saw Jax take a few tentative steps towards her target. "Hey buddy," he called to Garret, "you good in your head now or what?"

Garret jerked, as if someone had just given him a massive fright, before looking up at Jax. Slowly, the vacancy in his eyes evaporated, and the smallest hint of recognition bloomed in them. His face fell, then – weighed down by the stress and the trauma of what happened, it seemed as though he had aged years in mere seconds. And yet, when he spoke, none of his courteousness seemed injured. "I… I think… I think I pushed it back for now, sir… Thank… you…"

And with those words, consciousness faded from his eyes, and the deserter tumbled to the side, blissfully unconscious. "Well, that coulda gone worse," Jax shrugged as he turned around, facing Quinn. "No thanks to that damn chicken of yours. Cheh. No where's that field kit you were making me play around for? It looks you _both_ need it."

Quinn ignored Jax's jab at the amount of effort his little duel with her took. Smiling to herself, she petted Valor once again, shifting her weight as to sit more comfortably – or at least, as comfortably as a fractured knee would allow her to. "It… It's over there," she sighed, pointing behind her as she felt the adrenaline wear off again, this time for good. Suddenly her injuries decided to voice their disapproval with her reckless decision to face the Grandmaster at Arms, and struck with their combined pain in one giant flood of agony. Quinn, used to such pains by now, merely flinched, swaying on the spot. Darkness was fading in and out of her vision already.

"Oh no," Jax said apprehensively, seeing in her body language what was about to happen. "Fuck. That. Him I can handle, but I am _not _carrying _two_ people – and a damn chicken! – out of this hellhole. Forget it."

Quinn merely chuckled dazedly, smiling to herself. "Sorry Jax…" she said wearily. "But I think it's quite fair… That I make you work hard… after you made _us_ work… so hard…" She tumbled to the side as well, thankfully landing on her uninjured arm, and Valor hopped to the floor, considerate enough not to land on her broken arm. "What kind of Champ… would leave a damsel in distress… huh?" Upon seeing Jax stiffen slightly at the question, she allowed herself a last chuckle. "Exactly…" she sighed as she, too, lost consciousness.

The Grandmaster at Arms, now alone with his thoughts, let his shoulders droop. First he turned back to look at the unconscious form of the deserter he had saved from Quinn, and who had saved him in turn. Then he turned back to face Quinn, who was unconscious for being _stupid_ enough to actually try to fight him without Summoner magic holding him down. He frowned – all in all, he felt entitled to leave her sorry ass there. It's not like he killed her, after all, and she had that damn chicken to peck her awake if she was going to use her injuries as an excuse to be lazy.

Then again, he _was_ on his way to Vessaria Kolminye of all people… It wasn't as though she scared him – come on, he was The Champ. Even Nocturne couldn't scare him and Nocturne _embodied_ fear. No, the case was simply that Kolminye, well-meaning as she was, was a stone-assed stubborn bitch. The woman could rant for hours on end, and Jax, despite being The Champ, had simply no way to shut her up.

He was already in deep shit for what he had done in the Freljord. Taking his sweet time would leave him in even deeper shit, and if Kolminye found out he left a League champion injured and untreated, then… Oh boy. That would be one shitting-on that The Champ wouldn't be able to ignore even if he tried.

In the dead silence of the ancient cave, the sound of a palm slapping against a steel facemask echoed off the walls and across the bottomless chasms.

"…Fuck's sakes… This woman is gonna have _so _much debt to pay when this is over, I swear – just watch me…"

* * *

Thus, the great Grandmaster at Arms found himself sitting sourly at a campfire several hours later. The sun was just beginning to set behind the horizon and the sky was painted a dark miasma of purple, black and orange, with several clouds retreating wherever the wind took them. He huffed to himself, seated on a stump he'd set camp at. Being the Grandmaster that he was, he had little need for a tent – a night under the open stars was the best kind of night, after all. Around him, though, his two patients lay unconscious – one, a Ranger dreaming of something close to her heart, judging by the smile on her features, and the other, a deserter – a criminal, seemingly innocent, who had fled Demacia at a young age.

Jax frowned as Quinn shuddered from the cold yet again, and threw his empty canteen at her chicken when the purple-feathered beast shot him a cold glare. So what if he didn't give _her_ the sleeping bag? She's the one who got him into this mess, so fuck that.

No, his sleeping bag was currently semi-covering the deserter, Garret. Jax has wisely laid him down within lamppost's reach of his little improvised chair. After the debacle in the ruin he figured whatever the hell took control of the youngster must have been concentrated in that evil-looking arm, and The Champ had been proven right numerous times so far – every now and then, the arm's fingers would flex, and slowly the limb would reach upwards and move towards the man's face. It's goal remained unclear – whether to touch, or scratch, or strangle, Jax didn't know, and he didn't take any chances; five times so far the arm had tried to start its shit, and five times so far it had received a stern smack from a bent brass lamppost for its trouble.

The fifth time it had even flipped him the bird. Cheeky.

Nonetheless, he kept at his vigil with the same professionalism he used during assignments or jobs. The change in circumstance had forced his hand, and he had notified Kolminye that he had two injured wards – a Champion fighting in Demacia's name, and an innocent man ailed by a dark, malignant spirit. Old Girl Vess had been none too pleased about the matter at first, but agreed to send Summoners to transport them to the Institute when Jax proved he could be every bit as stubborn as she was.

Now he sat; waiting on the Summoners to get up off their lazy asses and actually start doing what they were supposed to. It had been a long day, granted, and Jax had _every_ intention to blow off absolutely _everyone_ back at the Institute in favour of hitting the sack and getting some rest – but until then…

A slight shuffling sound came from under the sleeping bag, and with a groan, Garret the deserter awoke from his rather fitful unconsciousness. He was every bit as pale as he was when he had fainted – close inspection proved his arm, macabre as it was, was fully healed – but his eyes… They seemed sunken, and ringed with dark skin, a sign that the past three hours of sleep did him no good. He was also trembling, for some odd reason that Jax dotted down to stress. "Morning, kiddo," The Champ spoke gruffly. "Sleep well?"

Garret jumped slightly, whipping his head around to get a good look at who was speaking, before leaning forwards and swaying slightly, pressing his palm to his forehead. "Easy there, buster," Jax got up off his stump and strode over to Garret, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder whilst offering him a spare canteen with the other. "Here," he said, "you'll need this after the day you had." The deserter gave him a wary look, but shook his head, smiling and opening his mouth to speak. When nothing but a dry rasp escaped him, Jax patted him on the back. "Drink first, talk later. You look like hammered shit – and it doesn't look like that arm helps matters."

He strode back to his makeshift seat and sat down, watching the deserter down the contents of the canteen as though water was something new and wonderful to him. Offhandedly, he wondered just how long this man had been wandering. He must have stopped by a few places here and there, going by the fact that he merely had some stubble instead of a beard, but still. Poor guy seemed downright _gaunt_ sometimes, and had a wiry, seemingly malnourished build fitting of someone who didn't get much rest or shelter. The canteen ran dry within seconds, and with a soft pop the deserter pulled it from his lips, heaving slightly. "Heh. Why do I get the feeling it's been a long time since you had a drink?"

"Too… Too long, I am afraid to say," the deserter spoke with a scratchy tone. "You… You have my sincerest thanks, sir."

"Whoa, whoa, hold up a minute," Jax said, raising his hands. "First off: Drop the 'sir' nonsense. It's Jax, kiddo – or Grandmaster, if you wanna be a kiss-ass like most folks this side of Valoran. Pheh. Snooty little snobs," he growled. He wasn't thinking about a certain woman from the Laurent family. Honestly, he wasn't. "Anyhow, don't jump up when you look next to you – I brought the Chickadee as well. She blacked out a few moments after you did."

The deserter looked to his side, and upon seeing the Ranger sleeping peacefully, a weight seemed to roll off his shoulders. "That… That is wonderful, si-Uh, Jax. Thank you for tending to her as well."

"Huh," Jax made an impressed noise. "Wonderful, you say? Awfully good-hearted of someone who was about to shoot her a few hours earlier." At the very least, the deserter had the sense to look bashful upon recalling the memory. "What's the deal about that, anyway, er – Chickadee said your name's Garret, right?" When Garret nodded in confirmation, Jax shook his head. "You sure as hell don't look like a Garret."

To his surprise – and relief – Garret merely laughed at the observation. It was a dry, throaty affair, but Jax could hear a bit of merriment in the action. "You… You have no idea how much I hear that. My name drove Father through the roof," he said, looking up at the stars. "Father was a military man, through and through – he tried to breed his sons to follow in his footsteps. When he named me he… he obviously had high hopes for me. He expected Garret, the paragon of justice and righteousness, the tall, imposing soldier who fought for all that was good and proper. And instead…" Garret trailed off. "Well. Instead, he got me. A bookish nerd far more interested in philosophy than war."

Jax chuckled at this. "Yet you're talking about him as though he meant the world to you," he remarked.

"Oh he did," Garret nodded. "My father and my brothers – they meant everything to me. I loved them dearly."

Jax did not miss the past tense Garret used to describe his family, and right then and there the Grandmaster had Garret's motive for desertion dotted down. It was at that moment that Garret's arm chose to act up again. It moved of its own accord, drawing a startled yelp from the man it was attached to, and once again, it tried to reach for its owner's face –

\- and once again, it received a blow from a brass lamppost as reward for its troubles.

"That damn thing is turning out to be more of a nuisance than ever," Jax remarked loudly, and it seemed as though the arm _glowed_ in response.

"You… You have no idea," Garret groaned, palming his face. "I remember the dreams I had… There… There's something inside this arm, Jax," he said fearfully, "and it will not leave me alone. It lingers in my mind, hiding behind my every thought, whispering to me, flooding my mind with things I'd rather not see… During my sleep, I saw… I saw carnage. Chaos. Combat, most likely, going by all the different weapons I saw. Some I had never even laid eyes on before, and yet, as though by instinct I could recall their names immediately… Their names, their purposes, how to wield them… I… I've never even touched a sword in my life, Jax…" The inherent worry and fear was evident in Garret's voice. "What kind of spirit is this?"

"Well, buddy," Jax started, shrugging ruefully. "I dunno. I didn't even know that damn place was there, and travel that road at _least_ twice a month. However!" he interrupted, just as it seemed a depressed look was about to flicker over Garret's face, "I know some people who do."

And as if on cue, as if _waiting_ for the Grandmaster to signal their role, magic flared to life around the campsite. Blue beams of light crashed down on the jungle floor, as flickers of power swirled and danced around the pillars. Several runic circles flared to life on the soil, and in a panic Garret had shot out of the sleeping bag, his demonic arm aglow and held up to shield him. The hum of magic filled the air, and with a crackle of might the figures materialized, their robes seemingly flowing into existence as they finished their ancient chants.

The Summoners had finally arrived.

"These… These are…" Garret seemed to recognize them, and much to Jax's merriment he seemed completely awestruck.

"It's a good thing you're up, kiddo," Jax said heartily as he rose from his makeshift seat. "These? These are some good friends of mine. They've agreed to take you somewhere safe, to help you and get _your_ side of the story without all the chains and arrows and rampant Chickadees and their stupid chickens. Who knows," he said, raising his arms. "Maybe they can help you with your new friend as well," he said.

Garret, for the first time that day, showed the merest glint of hope in his eyes. "You mean…?"

"Yup," Jax nodded, smugness evident in his voice. "Buckle up, buddy – we're going to the Institute of War."

* * *

**Aaaaand Chapter 1 is _done_! This took ages to write, but I feel it paid off - so far we've at least got a look at the two/'one' OC's this fic is going to be utilizing. I'm however quite nervous about making the story _completely_ OC-centric - as you'll notice I didn't write from Garret's point of view once in this chapter. This isn't to say I'll be having him - and his new tenant - as some kind of 'passive-protagonist' duo; it merely means I do not want to overwhelm the readers with too much nonsense.**

**Now then! Two new characters - one, a kind-hearted, courteous if cynical young scholar who's never even been in a play-fight, let alone a real battle - now accompanied by a malicious (...or is it?) spirit that seems capable of nothing BUT combat and weaponry. Should make for an interesting combo, I hope :)  
**

**Also, on a side note, a very special thanks to the EUW Server's player "Kitten Mittenz" for her stellar help in naming the bounty huntress from early in the fic. You have our sincerest appreciation for your aid :) **

**Now then! All's done and dusted, as an author, I wish to thank you, the readers, for taking the time to read this chapter. I can only hope you enjoyed it - knowledge only the feedback will show.**

**Until next chapter, though - adios, and thanks again for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Pre-Chapter A/N: ****Mandatory exposition chapter, ho! Okay, this chapter's a bit slower in terms of pacing than the last one – it contains a lot of exposition and character material. As such, I've tried my best to make it flow quite nicely and keep it interesting, mostly through a diverse array of P.O.V's – including Garret's :D Worry not though, his is merely for a fraction of the chapter. So, without further ado! **

**Will of Iron, Heart of Gold  
Chapter 2  
The Road To Recovery**

The Grandmaster at Arms, in general, did not see himself as a wrathful being. Sure, there were some thresholds that, when crossed, would result in a lamppost to the face, but he was hardly the type of person who would reach for his weapon at the first sign of a glare or a muttered insult behind him. He was The Champ, after all – scrubs who didn't have the guts to walk up to him and say what they wanted to say to his face (and endure the lamppost-to-face application that followed) simply weren't worth his time. Yes, Jax considered himself a man of temperament, of patience, despite the knowledge that, yes, he _was_ The Champ and, as such, the best.

Sadly, that patience wasn't infinite, as he was forced to realize pretty much _every damn time_ he was called in to meet with the High Councillors.

Currently, the fatigued, somewhat irritated Grandmaster found himself standing behind a window looking into a much-too-bright, sterile looking room in the Institute's hospital wing. Before him, two summoners in white robes were aiding Soraka, the Starchild, treat his latest acquaintance for all the various ailments that afflicted him. Jax frowned under his mask as he watched the proceedings. The two Summoners were using their magic to manipulate a set of bronze, runic chains, which were being used to bind Garret's new limb and prevent it from lashing out on its own accord.

A doctor had earlier tried to force an injection into said arm – and the aforementioned summoners were called in when said doctor was carted out of the room with a caved-in skull and several lacerations across his face.

All of this seemed to wear on Garret – for the whole journey back, short as it was, Garret had voiced the same complaints; _something_ was attacking his mind, trying to either break or manipulate him by way of subliminal messages or imagery, or visions or dreams or whatever the hell a spirit _could_ use to drive its host batty. Even now the symptoms of the struggle were evident on his face; his eyes were vacant and erratic, as though looking towards things that weren't there, or _were_, just beyond mortal sight. His breathing had become laboured and what little movements he made spoke of an _unfathomable_ toll on his body. From what Jax could deduce, Garret never had any of that fancy Demacian military training – however he'd survived his injuries and blood loss, it _certainly_ couldn't be chalked up to fitness or toughness.

The black arm writhed again, suddenly, yanking against the bronze chains with such force the loud rattling of iron could be heard even through the glass. One of the summoners stumbled forwards slightly, baring his teeth, but he stood his ground, intensifying his magics and pulling back on the chain.

Jax shook his head again. Whatever the fuck that arm was, it seemed otherworldly – he'd seen those same chains (in greater numbers) effectively bind a Void Beast. For a simple limb to strain against it with such strength…

The door to the bleak room opened, and a nurse stepped in carrying a tray of different medicines and injections. Despite the mask of stoicism, green eyes stared almost pityingly at Garret's weathered, slightly emaciated form, and a huge braid of black hair danced beside her as she stepped forwards. At this point the Grandmaster felt at least _some_ of his annoyance recede – it was always a treat to see Akali in her little nurse getup, and even now, the seriousness of the matter didn't detract from it. Jax shrugged as he let his eyes wander with nary a hint of concern or care for anyone who saw him. And to make matters even better it seemed as though Garret was getting the same amount of eye can-Wait. Wait, wait, _wait_, was he really… Jax frowned under his mask.

Was that kiddo honestly averting his eyes?! Pft. What a damn idiot.

At that moment, someone beside Jax – the source of his constant annoyance and irritation – cleared her throat in a pseudo-threatening manner – as if _anything_ could ever threaten The Champ – and shot him a withering glare.

"You know what?" Jax snapped, turning to face his accomplice casually. "My opinion on the matter? If she didn't want people to look she'd adhere to the dress code. If she's flaunting it I'm gonna eat it up, Vess – you might as well cut the glare."

Beside him, the glaring face of Vessaria Kolminye clicked her teeth as she returned her gaze forwards. "Pig," she muttered under her breath, her amber eyes glowing in the light. She was toying with a part of her fringe which hung out from beneath her dark hood, intermixing the single streak of silver with many darker strands.

"What, jealous?" Jax retorted. "I'd leer at you too if you didn't hide everything under those robes. Hell knows it'd make you more bearable, that's for sure."

"As much," Vessaria muttered tiredly, "as the prospect of squabbling with you grants me _untold_ excitement," and here the sarcasm became so obvious even the doctors and Summoners on the other side of the window could see it, "I would appreciate _some_ semblance of seriousness from you at this time, Grandmaster." She gazed curiously at Garret's now bedridden form, eyes scanning the black arm for any trace of misbehaviour. "You say that occurred after he shattered a relic? Remnants of ancient sword, according to your report?"

"Sure as hell looked like one," Jax shrugged, leaning against the wall beside the window. "If it was really a weapon instead of some kind of ritual piece, it'd be a piss poor one, I promise you," he said. "I mean sure, bronze has its uses, but making an actual weapon of it? Stupid, really. There's a reason iron and steel are better materials." He seemed to frown under his mask. "I'm a bit confused though - I've never seen bronze, or any material for that matter, shatter like that. It's unnatural."

"Preliminary tests show that your little weapon might be embedded in his arm," Vessaria spoke softly. "It doesn't look like bronze, but from what our people have deduced from the bit of scrapings we could take, it contains enough amounts of copper and tin to pass as it," she shook her head. "Suffice it to say, whatever that weapon was, it was _really_ old – just as old as the spirit, I'd wager." She turned to face Jax. "You said it spoke with you and the Ranger? It apparently used the young man's body as some sort of medium?"

"Less of a 'medium' and more of a complete hijacking," Jax said, gazing back through the window. "When that thing took over… There wasn't a single trace of that kid left." He paused. "It's a lot like you when I'm mentioned. Boom – new personality, new everything, right there and then."

"And the few words it spoke are meaningless…" Vessaria muttered morosely, ignoring the jab. "One of the Summoners has even gone as far as to say its words weren't even malicious… It seemed to think of you as opponents," she said icily, "and given your reports of it forging weapons from smoke… I dare say that Summoner wasn't too far off."

"I don't care what it thinks," Jax said with another shrug. "I don't care what it wants or what it feels like or even what the fuck it is. I know that thing is trying to push the kid aside, and take control, and let's just say I'm in a good enough state of mind to not let that happen." He faced her again, and Vessaria could read a modicum of seriousness in his body despite his casual stance. "When are you making contact?"

"As soon as Soraka gives us the all-clear," Vessaria replied, intrigued. "The man was a fugitive on the run for more than a decade, Jax – his health has taken a serious decline over those years. His body is currently a cess pool of ailments – the list of things the Starchild has to contend with now is rather large. It will be a while before we manage to make any attempts to contact it. As it stands now we've got a team of suppressors ready to at least isolate the being's communication."

"Then where the hell are they?" Jax bristled. "Look at his damn face, Vess – the guy's a _mess_, and every moment you let that thing talk to him-"

"Is another moment that he's got enough on his mind to stay _awake_," Vessaria cut him off sharply, "and thus _cooperative_. Make no mistake, Jax, my heart bleeds for him as much as yours does, but if he cuts out _now_ then the entire process is going to take longer than necessary. Garret needs to be awake to aid Soraka, to tell her exactly what he's done during his years on the run – broken bones, sicknesses, viruses, diseases, wounds – Soraka can only heal so many of them without knowledge, and if Garret's asleep that means she won't _have_ that knowledge," she said, her gaze becoming somewhat regretful. "Make no mistake, Jax, as soon as he's healed up we're going to let him sleep as long as he wants to. After everything he's gone through… He deserves that much."

Jax remained silent for several moments. Under his helm, his eyes scanned that black arm, taking note of the jagged shards decorating it. As though it _felt_ his gaze, it pulsed again, a wave of red travelling upwards under the skin. He felt his eyes narrow when it struggled against the chains again – with less force but equal persistence. "How do you plan to do it?" He asked simply.

"Well, after communication has been established our first plan is to have the Judicator try to interact with it," the High Councillor responded with a weary sigh. "With her… somewhat unique talents, she should at least be able to determine whether the entity is demonic or not. Going by what she relays to us, we'll formulate a plan from there." Despite how fatigued she sounded, there was resolution in her voice – and Jax couldn't blame her, really. In the past, Kayle had been instrumental in solving certain problems. If Jax knew her well enough, he figured Vessaria had enough faith in Kayle to actually pull this off.

"Well she's stubborn as shit, so she's got that going for her," Jax conceded, choosing not to nitpick or play around any further. The sun was already starting to creep out over the horizon, and still, Vessaria had not slept a wink since the day before. Granted, neither did he, but hey – he was The Champ. A little fatigue wasn't gonna get him down. "Anyways, I'll be at the bar after I wake up. Do me a favour and keep me informed about his condition, will ya? From what I've heard about that kid," he said as he strode away, "he's not exactly in a good spot. Hasn't been, in a long time."

"I will do so," Vessaria spoke with a nod, not even gazing at Jax's retreating form. "Although," she spoke, with the slightest hint of authority to her tone, "do not think this means I've forgotten about your hijinks in Rakelstake." The silence became tense, and in her years of dealing with the Grandmaster and his wiles she didn't need to see him to know he had stiffened slightly. "We still need to discuss repair bills and damages, after all…"

For a moment, a brief, _brief_ moment, The Champ considered turning around and arguing the point. After all, that shit was as much on Gragas and Tryndamere's heads as it was on his! Sadly, though, his arguments died in his throat when he saw her absently rub at one of her eyes, stifling a yawn. Shrugging and sighing dejectedly, the Grandmaster turned around and strode away, choosing not to bicker at such a poor time.

"Eh, fuck it. Not like I can't afford it anyway. Those two are footing the payment, though, make no damn mistake…"

* * *

She had seen poor health before. As part of her role in life, as part of her very _nature_, helping the sick and injured had been a large priority for her. Even back in Ionia, when she was away from the Institute and all its machinations, she would be called upon to help ease someone's suffering, and be it a grievous wound or a silly cough, she had complied without a hint of hesitation, without thought of recompense or gain. Such was the purity, the sheer kindness in her heart.

The cruelty of one would not blind her to the suffering of many. It was a mantra she had adopted, a singular phrase to keep her going towards her goal.

And yet, looking down at the bed, and seeing this young man so withered and weighed down, so _pained_ and _agonised_ – despite the multitude of crimes the Demacian Summoners informed her that the man was accused of, she could not help but feel pity for him. What she had healed already beggared belief – already she had re-mended several bones that had healed irregularly over the course of his life, and dispelled most of the minor illnesses that plagued him. But still, it felt insubstantial – the one thing that was ailing him the most was something she could do nothing about.

Nonetheless, Soraka sighed heavily before diligently continuing her work. Thus far she had been busy seeing what she could do regarding the numerous amounts of scar tissue found all over the patient's body. The majority of it seemed to be around his ribs, and on his back, which was currently inaccessible. While he had greatly calloused fingers and palms, that was where it remained – there was no scarring or bruising around his knuckles, so going out on a limb Soraka guessed he didn't use his fists much, and going by the scars predominating his back she could deduce this man, Garret, was more prone to flee than to fight.

And yet, the Grandmaster had brought him here – to the place that _moderated_ conflict, and used gladiatorial battles in magical arenas to solve it.

She realized she was frowning, and exhaled softly in relief when she realized Garret had spaced out again. The man seemed courteous to the point of docility – even going as far as to apologize to her, Akali and all the other people involved for keeping them up so late. The last thing she wanted was to create the illusion that something was seriously wrong. Granted, that tainted arm _was_ something that could count as seriously wrong – but going by Garret's constant mutters of defiance, she suspected he knew that all too well. She went to work mending the scar tissue from what seemed to be a knife wound in his bicep, her magics doing their part as they emitted an eerie yet earthly glow. Akali stood by her side, diligent and stoic as ever, despite the change in apparel.

Garret gasped suddenly, and erupted into a violent coughing fit. By instinct Soraka helped him into a sitting position as he covered his mouth with his fist, trying to keep as much of it contained as possible. Still, it had been a very nasty fit, and by the time he was finished, the man seemed even more out of breath than he was when he was booked in – a feat that Soraka had, until now, considered improbable. Nonetheless, some of the haziness in Garret's eyes dispelled and he blinked wearily, awkwardly scratching at his face with his free hand. "That…" he rasped, his throat seemingly dried out from the coughing fit. "…Unexpected."

Soraka smiled despite herself. "It always is," she said as she eased him back down onto the bed. "I'd ask how you feel, but given the circumstances…" She trailed off, checking him over for any other injuries. "I've tended to most of your ailments. The scarring on your back is inaccessible, however."

"Don't," Garret started, before clearing his throat. "Please, don't worry yourself about those, ma'am," he said, somewhat weakly, although his voice had lost the quiver that plagued it when he was admitted. "Some scars won't make my life unbearable…"

"Regardless," she hummed, quickly working at healing a bruise on one of his pectorals. "I must say I'm surprised, Garret. Your injuries and sicknesses… It's difficult to believe you lasted thirteen years in this state."

"Thirteen years," Garret repeated, disbelief evident in his voice. "I… I swear, it certainly didn't feel that long, ma'am…" He mused as he examined the chains locked around his twisted new limb, idly fidgeting with the three somewhat intricate locks dotting the links. "Then again… I can't even recall most of what happened… It has all been one, giant amalgam of chaos and secrecy…" He trailed off. "I cannot even remember if I had a set route to follow… Everything just… fell apart, no matter how diligently I planned…"

"Well, at the very least you can stop worrying about that now, Garret," Soraka said softly as she moved on to yet another bruise. "The Institute houses a number of people with much, much more questionable motives than simple desertion. If nothing else, there'll be no active persecution here – at least for a while," she said with a smile. "I'd say you deserve a bit of rest after more than a decade on the run."

"Sometimes I wonder if I do…" Garret mused softly, gazing at the overhead lights. "A few months ago I would have heartily agreed, laughed, even, at the concept of an ounce of freedom. But now…" He said softly, "Now I cannot be certain…"

Soraka did not miss the sorrow and regret lingering in his voice. "Are you referring to the murder charge against you?"

Garret seemed to abstain from responding at first. He merely lay there, staring at the light above him. The Starchild could see deep contemplation in those emerald eyes, a hesitation etched into his gaunt faced as he weighed his option. Finally, with a simple spark of acceptance, he closed his eyes and nodded. "It… It is my fault," he said morosely. "I… I am the reason that man is dead."

Soraka blinked, somewhat shocked at the pseudo-confession. While startled, though, she did not bother wondering why he chose to speak of the event now. Often guilt could be as effective an interrogator as any guard or ranger, and by the look of it Garret had been left to his own guilt long enough to come to regret his actions. Cautiously, she looked toward Akali, seeking some sign as to how she should proceed. The kunoichi turned her gaze to the window behind Soraka, where they both knew High Councillor Kolminye stood, watch. She held her gaze for but a second, before locking eyes with Soraka ever-so-briefly, and nodding slightly.

Soraka took this as her cue, not once stopping her work. "What do you mean, Garret?" She asked softly. "What happened?"

"I… I am still not sure," Garret sighed. "I… I was in Bilgewater, hiding out at one of my associates' place. I was sitting in a tavern one night, I recall. I do not know if it was through foolishness or carelessness that I went to such a public place, but… I recall my mind was heavy that night. I… I received news that had… upset me considerably. Someone I had grown to trust, and to consider a friend, had been killed," he said. At that precise moment Soraka saw hurt in the young man's eyes – the pain of loss floated in those emerald orbs. "I… I went to the restroom, at one stage – I planned for it to be my final stop before recalling for the evening. Someone… Someone followed me. At first I thought nothing of it – I was drunk and reckless, I barely paid him any mind. Next…" He trailed off, and swallowed loudly. "Next thing I know the man has a sword in his hand. He… He told me to surrender, to return to Demacia with him, to face trial and sentencing. It all happened so fast, I could barely function until the blade was pointed at my throat."

Soraka glanced at Akali again. The young kunoichi was doing an admirable job at hiding her actions; to anyone else – especially a young, tired lad like Garret – it would seem as if she were merely dotting down notes in his medical folder. Soraka herself knew, though – Akali was dotting down Garret's tale word by intricate word. She suspected that, if it were possible to recreate an accent on black and white, Akali would have that dotted down too. "Garret… If this is becoming too much for you…" Soraka started, only to have Garret shake his head adamantly.

"No… No, I… This has been left in the dark long enough," Garret sighed. "I'm here now, safe, but whether I like it or not my charges are going to be overseen and a consensus will be reached, regardless. I… am tired of running, of hiding and hoping for something I will likely never receive. I… I nearly died in that cave… And yet, someone saw fit to save me… despite knowing who I was and… and what I was accused of…" Garret trailed off again. "No… No, I'll not disrespect the Grandmaster by continuing to run and hide…"

"That… is admirable, Garret," Soraka said with a soft, kind smile as she watched the emotions flicker through his eyes. "What happened then?"

Garret blinked, and shook his head, as if to clear it. "Luck happened," he said softly. "A drunken wench stumbled into the men's room and caught the Demacian off-guard. He… He lowered his weapon, trying to hide it from her, and I took that chance to bolt." He sighed, as though speaking of the dark night somehow raised a weight of his chest. "The bloke gave chase, though – shoved the poor woman aside and chased after me, hiding his sword under his fancy coat as he went. I…" He gulped. "I was drunk, and tired, and running a fever – I knew he'd catch up to me somehow, so… I improvised. As soon as I got back to the main tavern I picked up an empty bottle and chucked it into the crowd. I… I heard it shatter against someone's face, and I recall several people firing angry glares in my direction," he said, a slight waver returning to his voice. "Instead of a drunkard looking for a fight, they saw an angry man with a sword. Such a sight in a bar full of pirates and thieves…" He closed his eyes, as if envisioning the sight before him once more. "A… A bar fight broke out, and I slipped out under cover of chaos. I ran back to my hideout, gathered my things and said my farewells, and… and just before I left Bilgewater I heard the man had been killed in the fight."

He paused then, raising his free hand to cover his eyes, and as he closed them Soraka swore she could see a hint of wetness forming around his eyelids. She placed her hand on his arm, in a bid to offer some form of comfort, of sympathy. "What worries me most," he continued, bitterness evident in his voice, "…was the fact that I couldn't even give a damn. A few years ago, this… this would have affected me in a much different way. But now…" He shook his head glumly. "I don't feel anything. No guilt, no trepidation, nothing. The only thing I cared about – then and now, even – was putting as much distance between myself and that man as possible. The six feet of dirt and soil was just another number to add to the total."

For a moment longer, his gaze lingered on the sterile wall in front of him. There was something in his eyes, some form of contemplation, of reasoning, that Soraka didn't dare guess the roof of. Garret, thus far, was a strange man. She had gained a modicum of understanding regarding him – men whose inhibitions had been dampened by pain and fatigue and fear rarely saw need to tell lies, and this deserter was no different. Garret, from what Soraka could deduce, wasn't much of a fighter. His strength laid in his mind, and how he used it to avoid and escape conflict. Had she not known any better she would call him a pacifist, but… Thus far it seemed he was as dangerous as any wolf when cornered, abhorrence of violence or none.

"That's why I wonder…" Garret mused morosely, his eyes still plastered to the wall. "I likely caused a family to lose a husband and a father… and I still can't care. There's regret, yes – I know the man was… was only trying to do his job. I'll always regret that he had to lose his life so I could keep my own, but… The fact that I feel no _guilt_, no _weight_ on my conscience…" He trailed off with a sigh. "That scares me."

Soraka blinked. That… was not the kind of consensus one reached simply by reciting a life story. All the consideration, and hesitation she had seen in his eyes made sense now – the Starchild wagered Garret had been thinking about this for a _long_ while now.

"What caused you to think about this?" She asked softly, returning to tending his wounds and dispelling his sickness.

"I… This… This _thing_," Garret growled, finally tearing his sight off the blank wall to level a glare at his now twisted arm. "Ever since it's started talking to me, _whispering_ to me… It's been filling my head with thoughts I'd rather not entertain. But yet… I can't help but wonder if that's how I've been thinking all along, and never noticed…" He sighed. "I noticed so little about myself while I was on the run. So many dangers… Bounty hunters, bandits, wildlife, nature itself… When faced with such things… One tends to focus more on keeping your life than actually _living_." He shook his head.

"If… If all these thoughts, all these _violent_ ideas… If they're not because of the arm… If they're my own…" He frowned, his glare tracing the sharp shards protruding from the limb. "I… I do not want to be that kind of being. I swore to myself my circumstances would never change me… That I, that I'd uphold what I was taught as a lad, and stay true to it… But this," he growled again. "I thought… I thought I found salvation in that ruin, when the Grandmaster arrived. But all these thoughts, all these _horrid_ images and ideas… They draw on memories I would rather forget. They make me reconsider."

With a sigh, he turned his gaze back to the blank wall. "I've never been so scared in my life… I've killed before, out of necessity, out of some twisted desire of self-preservation… But these memories… These images…" He shuddered. "If this is what I'm becoming… If this is what this arm is bringing to the fore…" He sighed. "If that's the case… then my sentence cannot come soon enough."

* * *

To say she had witnessed an _interesting_ sight would be an understatement. Of all the possible things to happen when Garret had started his little confession, the _last_ thing Vessaria Kolminye expected to happen was to see the young deserter express such unbridled _fear _and uncertainty. She had thought the emotion to be an age-old accomplice to the deserter, what with thirteen years spent living in circumstances that could make fear _bloom_. And yet… Now, with nobody pursuing him, without any form of danger or threat around him… Now that the man was actually allowed to _think_… It seemed as though that decade's worth of trials had turned him into something he instinctively dreaded – due in no small part to that damned spirit hiding in his arm. For but a moment she hesitated – if the spirit's effects were enough to make him consider life in prison as a _good_ thing, something was seriously wrong.

And with a frown, she realized there was nothing she or the other Summoners could do to help him – at least, not _yet_.

Convincing the Grandmaster that it was too risky to simply sever the arm completely took some doing. Honestly, today was the first day she had seen the Grandmaster actually get _angry_ at her. But it had to be done – the arm itself had to be inspected in full before removal could progress. The dangers were many – and as much as neutrality and equal treatment to all were part of her job, she felt that, at the very least, the poor man didn't deserve to have his life threatened again so soon.

Closing her eyes, she sighed. When Jax had told her he found someone _'interesting'_ who needed help, she wasn't expecting this.

Nonetheless, she thought to herself as she stared down at the bundle of files and dossiers on the table before her. On one hand, the spirit in that arm seemed sentient, and combat capable no less – if they could find some way to harness it, to somehow bind it to Garret's psyche in a way that rendered the poor man in _complete_ control, she might just be able to do something about the charge of desertion against him. If Garret could find some way to oppress the spirit, to make a weapon of it, she could _easily_ have him inducted into the ranks of the Institute's Champions, and thus absolve him of any crimes he had committed.

But then there was the matter of the man's personality. The Champions of the Institute varied greatly, and while Vessaria was not foolish enough to believe all of them were truly heroic at heart, there _were_ some people in their ranks that Garret would find issue with fighting…

She barely even knew him and she already doubted the deserter would do a single thing _any_ Summoner told him to when faced with Annie Hastur.

She sighed to herself as she flipped through one of the dossiers. If all else failed, she thought as she stared at some crumpled notes they had retrieved from his now shredded traveller's coat, they could use his particular talents elsewhere. It seemed as though Garret favoured knowledge over combat prowess, as these scribbles showed. He had obviously learned much during his desertion, despite being a fugitive – one paper had a photo stapled to it, and the image displayed a frost-matted wall somewhere inside a ruin, likely in the Freljord. The page itself was something even she could not fully decipher, but Vessaria was clever enough to know that Garret was busy translating the murals and glyphs shown on the photo. Impressive, considering most Demacians didn't even know Ancient Freljordian languages were a thing.

Offhandedly she wondered just what would happen if the Prodigal Explorer ever met this young man.

Her thoughts were cut short when the door next to her opened, and the Fist of Shadow herself stepped through. Her face was still etched into that same mask of neutrality everyone had come to associate with the ninja. She was curt, professional, to-the-point and rarely dawdled or beat around the bush, a trait Vessaria had come to appreciate when dealing with the Kinkou Order.

"High Councillor," the kunoichi addressed her with all the respect she'd come to associate with her title. The young ninja-nurse handed her the small medical dossier she had been writing in while tending to Garret's health. "A full confession, word for word, with the Starchild and two Senior Summoners as witnesses."

"My thanks, Fist of Shadow," Vessaria nodded to her, taking the small file and adding it to the pile before her. "And once more, my sincerest apologies for startling you so late."

"While here, we are bound to the Institute and its leaders," Akali said, not even an inflection of emotion in her voice. "You needn't apologize, High Councillor. I merely fulfilled my duty – nothing more, nothing less." As curtly as she arrived, she made a slight bow and turned to walk away. To any normal person the young woman would seem like just another attractive nurse walking down the hallway – but Vessaria knew better. Her time as a High Councillor has wizened her to many things – and while she might not have seen so back then, it was clear as day now: In Akali's body language – her stance, her gait, her face, and her posture – one could easily deduce this woman was a trained assassin of the highest order of danger. Brutal indoctrination and rigorous discipline had forged her into the deadliest killing tool.

And yet, despite it all, Akali's straight-sighted black-and-white view regarding the world was something Vessaria had found useful numerous times in the past. "Akali," the Councillor called after the retreating ninja, prompting the young woman to stop in her tracks. Her head did 'turn' so much as it twitched towards the High Councillor, a sign that Vessaria had her attention for a moment or two. "What is your opinion, I wonder? You heard him speak. You saw his eyes, and heard the emotions in his voice. Is he guilty?"

"I do not see how that matters," Akali said flatly. "My loyalty lies with Ionia and the Institute – the deserter's charges and sins are Demacia's business, and as such, none of mine." And with those words, the ninja resumed her stride, walking away at a pace that betrayed neither her intentions nor her opinions.

Vessaria nodded to herself as soon as Akali disappeared from sight. While she could not procure an opinion from the Fist of Shadow, the curt, business-like reply had set her mind at ease somewhat. The Kinkou were, in their loyalty to Ionia, loyal to the Institute as well – and with Akali's mindset to 'do what must be done', Vessaria figured the ninja would at least have warned her had Garret posed a threat. She turned her gaze back to the window – it seemed the Starchild was animatedly discussing something with the deserter, and Garret, for all his fear and mental strain, was smiling just a bit.

Nodding again, Vessaria gathered the bundle of files into her arms. While it did not seem as though Garret was a dangerous individual, that arm of his was another matter entirely. If it was malicious enough to attack two of the Institute's Champions on sight, and flood its host's mind with imagery that _terrified_ the poor soul, they were looking at something really serious. Regardless, she had the final piece of what she required – Garret's confession was last on the long list of things she'd need to present to the Demacians the following day. While she wasn't foolish enough to believe he'd be pardoned completely, she was well aware that House Lightshield was not composed of tyrants – nor was House Crownguard, for that matter. If nothing else, getting the necessary evidence into Prince Lightshield's hands should at least ease the tensions.

It clicked to her then that she still had to compile everything – handing the Demacians a scribbled confession on a hospital form was hardly going to be appropriate. She had letters to write, case files to put together, appeals to make and _gods above_ the sun was already pouring through the windows. This marked one of the many times Vessaria had been thankful to be alone – with a heavy sigh and drooping shoulders, actions sharply contrasting her professional Councillor image, she turned tail and slunk back to her quarters, wondering just when she'd finally get this whole riot behind her.

Wasn't it _wonderful_ to be a High Councillor?

* * *

_**Several Days Later**_

Quinn sighed softly as she sat in the hospital bed, absentmindedly toying with the seams of the light blanket that covered her lower body. Several days had passed since she had woken up in the hospital wing – yet still, she was confined to this damn room. She shot a haphazard glare at the small, supportive splint wrapped around her arm. Apparently the blow from Jax's lamppost had resulted in one of the worst compound fractures the healers and nurses had seen in months – her arm guard that doubled as Valor's perch was the only reason said limb hadn't flopped forwards ninety degrees after the impact. Of all the ailments she had received in her 'fight' against the Grandmaster at Arms, only the arm and a very, _very_ stubborn ache in the side of her head remained. Without realizing it, she reached up and ran her fingers over the gauze that covered the left side of her head. Grumbling to herself, she toyed with the few loose fabrics.

After the event at the ruins she had a newfound respect for all her comrades who frequently fought against Jax on the Summoner's Rift.

"If you toy with your bandages they'll come loose," a voice called from ahead of her. "If that happens they'll need to be reapplied – which means you'll just stay here longer."

Quinn opened her mouth to speak, but found herself unable to formulate a rational comeback. The splint around her arm had already come loose twice, and one of those two times she ended up undoing the healers' work by re-fracturing her arm again. In the absence of a witty retort, she merely closed her mouth and shot a baleful mock-glare at the earlier speaker.

Armour almost as richly coloured as her own eyes shifted slightly, the sound of steel-on-steel briefly filling the room, and Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV merely smirked at Quinn's ire from where he was seated. "You know as well I do," he said with that confident demeanour he was known for, "that this is only for your own good. We can't have one of our best Rangers out and about if a simple movement will fracture her arm again."

"I didn't – I didn't know the bones were still so weak!" At least this time, Quinn thought, she could formulate a response – however lamely she had said it. In the back of her head the sheer surrealism of it all still gnawed at her – here she sat, a simple Ranger with humble beginnings, speaking to the _Crown Prince of Demacia_ as though they were old friends. Well, _technically_ they could be considered friends – but that hardly changed the surrealism of the moment. "Besides, I don't see why I can't at least be up and about. It's just a broken arm – I've got another one."

Jarvan seemed to ponder her suggestion for but a moment before smirking again. He reached for a simple hospital flyer lying next to his helmet on the small table beside him, and with one movement, snatched it up and crumpled it into a ball before raising it to his own eye-level. "Catch," he said simply, and with a simple flick of his wrist the (hard) paper projectile was flying towards Quinn's face at a moderate speed. The Ranger's eyes widened – one more than the other, due to the swelling – and scrambled to catch the small bundle with her free hand.

To her great disappointment it seemed she was still concussed, as the paper missile flew right past her outstretched hand and smacked right into the bandage lining her head, eliciting a soft yelp from her in the process.

Once again, her hand went for the bandaged spot, cradling it gently, and once again she shot a baleful glare at her current visitor. The Prince, predictably, merely chuckled at her reaction, and against her will she found herself laughing along despite the ever-so-subtle ache in her temple. "Fine, fine," she relented, flopping back down onto the bed. For the past two days the Prince had visited her when he had the time – it was rather heartwarming, that he would make time to come and see her in-between the sanctioned matches and political discussions. It used to shock her, _fluster_ her, even, but by now… By now she was used to it. Jarvan cared greatly for his friends and his people both, and he held the drive to protect them by any means necessary. Once again, the surrealism kicked in, and she again pondered just how out of place it would seem that the Prince considered _her_, a simple farmgirl-turned-Ranger, a friend. "I still can't believe that lamppost hit so hard…"

"In the Grandmaster's hands," Jarvan nodded his agreement as he spoke, "even the most comical of weapons can become life-threatening." The Prince reclined in his seat, ignoring the sounds of his armor scuffing the armrests. "I actually wanted to speak to you, Quinn," he said, a look of contemplation in his eyes. "It regards the deserter you were pursuing."

Quinn felt a hint of trepidation as the rather sore topic was approached. Her failure had still left a sour taste in her mouth – granted, Jarvan had claimed that he would have had her recalled _immediately_ if he had known the Grandmaster at Arms would interfere, but it bothered her nonetheless. She was a Ranger, after all – and an Elite one at that. She had survived _countless_ operations that placed deep behind enemy lines, tracked and apprehended assassins and killers who could easily compete with the Institute's champions, and each and every time she and Valor obtained success.

To know that she failed such a simple track-and-catch assignment weighed heavily on her.

"I have been approached," the Prince continued, retaining a casual air despite the seriousness of the topic, "by High Councillor Kolminye. She has been overseeing the Institute's treatment of your former target, and provided me with information regarding him. Most of this information was standard – research notes, theories, diary entries and the like. There were a few… interesting bits of information, though," he digressed, nodding again. "How much were you told about your target, Quinn?"

"Not much," Quinn said hesitantly. "I… I was given a name, a photo and about two sentences concerning his background information. I know he was from a poor area in the city, and that he had no family to speak of." She paused, curiosity blooming in her amber eyes. "Why the sudden interest? Did something change?"

The Prince let out a deep sigh, somehow still regaining the regal, confident air he held regardless of the action. "Much has changed, yes. We received a confession – the deserter's own side of the story – and we've finally affirmed just who he is. Garen recognized his family name, and a few quick inquiries shed a whole new light on the case." He paused for a moment. "It's safe to say the situation is not as clear cut as we thought it was," he finally resumed, removing a small file from under his discarded helmet, and opening it.

"Garret Hillock - the youngest of three siblings. His father, Sergeant Robert Hillock, went on reserve after an injury during our skirmishes against Noxus, before the Institute came to power. Robert Hillock married his childhood sweetheart, a young baker named Jeanette, upon returning from duty, and they started a family – first a pair of twins, Isaiah and Aaron, then Garret five years later. Sadly, Jeanette Hillock passed away shortly after Garret's birth due to pregnancy complications," he said morosely. "Robert was left to raise his three sons alone, a duty which pardoned him from being redrafted for several years. Despite being a humble soldier, he strove to raise his sons with the same sense of honour, duty and justice he had been raised with, despite the loss of his wife." He trailed off here, pausing slightly. "Several domestic reports indicate a sort of unease between Robert and his youngest son, Garret – it seemed the boy didn't have much mind for soldiering. Nonetheless, the small excerpt from the domestic overseer's verdict states that Garret and Robert adored each other despite the hiccups in their relationship."

He turned the page, eyes scanning over the various paragraphs and sentences. "Eighteen years ago, Robert Hillock was formally redrafted into the Demacian military, specifically border patrol, in order to deal with an insurgence of bandits. Hillock's unit was ambushed by the outlaws, and while they were beaten back eventually, Robert Hillock was killed in action during the skirmish. The twins Isaiah and Aaron, age sixteen, and Garret, age eleven, were left orphaned." He paused again, glancing at her to read her expression. Quinn narrowed her eyes, processing the information. So Garret had lost his father at a young age, and never knew his mother, to boot. She frowned slightly – how was that any motivation to leave Demacia?

"You're thinking along the same lines I did," Jarvan interrupted her thoughts, turning his eyes back to the folder. "The tale gets better," he said sarcastically. "Isaiah and Aaron Hillock, age sixteen, appealed to be allowed to raise their younger brother in lieu of sending him to an orphanage. After several exams and interviews, the appeal was granted and they three of them stayed on in their family home. According to the social services the three of them had developed an iron-forged bond after their father's death. In order to provide for themselves, and their brothers, Aaron and Isaiah joined the Demacian military as well – Aaron joined the Rangers and Isaiah was drafted into the Dauntless Vanguard," he paused and looked up. "That was our missing link – Garen recognized Isaiah Hillock's name."

Quinn gulped – she had the slightest feeling that it wasn't a happy recollection on the Captain's part. "Why do I get the feeling I'm in for more tragic tales?" she asked warily, and Jarvan, losing his dignified air for but a moment, nodded sadly.

"I can see why he turned tail," the Prince spoke honestly. "Two years after his conscription into the Vanguard, Isaiah Hillock fell ill with a terminal sickness. His health and mental stability declined rapidly, to the point of first being benched in the reserve and then being discharged from the military entirely. There was nothing the healers could do to stop the ailment – Isaiah Hillock passed away sixteen years ago." Jarvan stopped for a moment. "Garen told me it was one of the more pronounced losses the Vanguard had suffered – Isaiah was apparently everything Garen could hope to have in his ranks, and the young man had formed an almost familial bond with his comrades." He frowned to himself, flipping the pages again. "And it doesn't even end there," he said irritably.

"You're going to tell me that… Uh… What's his name, Aaron?" Quinn inquired, quirking her head with a look of caution in her eyes. "Did he pass away too?"

"Sadly," the Prince nodded, gazing at the file in his hands. "Aaron Hillock was announced Missing In Action after a failed expedition into the Shadow Isles." The bitterness in the Prince's voice was audible, and Quinn suddenly remembered being informed that Jarvan had stood against the notion of such an incursion since its announcement. It was way, way before her time, but the story was quite popular among the Rangers – a squad had been dispatched to scout out the newly named 'Shadow Isles', and contact with them had been lost immediately after they entered the veil of mist that shrouded the ominous islands. A few weeks later the boat the rangers used was recovered – bloody, broken and completely abandoned.

She shuddered slightly – if the older Rangers and captains were to be believed, it was barely a week after this incident when Hecarim, the Shadow of War, started his destructive journey to the Institute of War's front door. "When did this happen?"

"Thirteen years ago," Jarvan said pensively, snapping the folder shut. "Roughly two months before it was reported that Garret Hillock had fled Demacian territory."

_Ah._ Quinn hesitated for a moment as everything fell into place. Suddenly Garret seemed like much more than a simple deserter. Jarvan's report proved that the young man had lost his whole family over the course of five years – with the majority of them perishing while in service to the Demacian military. She frowned to herself, replaying the events of what transpired in the ruin in her mind's eye, and as if she had adopted a new way of seeing, a new way of _thinking_, all of Garret's hostility and fear, all that adamant refusal to return to his city state – it all made sense. "Do you…" She wavered slightly, recalling Garret's words clearly, as though they were the only sound in his mind. "Do you think he blames Demacia?" She asked carefully. "For the loss of his family?"

The Crown Prince stood up, placing the dossier to the side and strolling to the foot of her bed. "I would not blame him," he said softly. "I've already gone over what you reported – I've can almost recall his speech to you word-for-word… But I only know _what_ he said," Jarvan said. "I've come to you out of curiosity – I want to know _how_ he said it."

For a moment, Quinn remained silent. She tried to re-envision the scene from the ruin, at least the parts before Jax had arrived to school her. After all, the deserter's words were of the type that wasn't easily forgotten. "He… I don't know how to describe it," she said blandly, making a face. "I'm a Ranger, not a linguist – I can't… I can't _describe_ these things, I just…" She trailed off, sighing deeply and closing her eyes. "The only obvious thing I could tell is that he _hated_ the idea of coming back here, and… and I'm thinking it wasn't about the charges on his name."

Jarvan raised an eyebrow, intrigued at her observation. "Go on?"

"I mean, if you think about it," Quinn said, shifting herself into a more comfortable sitting position. "Thirteen years this guy is running from every guard, every scouting party we send after him – I'm willing to bet he's even gone to _ridiculous_ lengths to escape sometimes – and not _once_ does he pause, or falter, or waver or anything. And yet," she said, snapping her fingers, "the moment Jax offers to take him to the Institute he's all aboard. No hesitation, no doubt, nothing. It's like he jumped at the chance to face his crimes _outside_ Demacia, so…" Her shoulders drooped. "But I can't even understand that – he was… courteous, when he spoke to me. He even called me 'ma'am'. But… If he's willing to enter a standoff and risk _death_ rather than go back…" She sighed again, flopping back down. "This guy makes my head hurt. More than it already does, that is."

Jarvan merely smiled at her in response, as softly as it could appear on his masculine face, and donned his helmet again. "It would be in your best interests to stop thinking about it, then," he said lightly as he struggled with its clasps. "As I said, we've gotten his side of the story, and when… _whatever_ is hiding in that arm isn't plaguing his mind, he'll be taken to the Reflection Chamber. There we'll finally figure out just what is going on." He turned on his heel, then, and strode towards the door. "Well, this matter is calling for my attention as well. You have my thanks, Quinn – even if you don't think it, you've helped a great deal."

The Ranger watched the Prince move towards the door, frowning at the amount of hesitation she felt. "Jarvan!" She called out, just as his hand found the doorknob. Shoving her hesitation aside, she steeled herself. Even if it was none of her business – she was still a curious person by nature. While she was on the hunt she had afforded herself little time to ponder – but now, she had all the time in the world. Jarvan turned to stare at her, a curious expression on his face, and Quinn cleared her throat before speaking. "What really happened in Bilgewater?" She asked earnestly. "What's his side of the story?"

Jarvan merely smiled at her curiosity, an odd response he seemed to hold reserved purely for her own questions. There was, however, a degree of sorrow in his eyes. "We had an informant stationed there," he began, "to keep an eye on pirate activity coming in and out of the city. More than likely one of his contacts informed him there was a Demacian outlaw in town and he moved to apprehend the person while he had a chance." There was a flicker of something in his eyes, something Quinn didn't recognize, but Jarvan spoke nonetheless. "The informant moved on Garret the moment he saw a chance. Garret, desperate to escape, instigated a bar fight. Our informant… He lost his life in that little brawl."

Quinn averted her eyes. For such a simple track-and-catch, this was easily turning into one of the biggest messes of her career, and it wasn't just because of the violence-obsessed _thing_ that was no hitchhiking in the deserter's arm. How could one simple deserter cause so much confusion, and warrant so much special attention? Her eyes narrowed irritably – could it be because of Jax? Jarvan, easily deducing her train of thought, merely chuckled. "I'll keep you informed," he said with a quaint nod. "For now, focus on resting up. The other Rangers are eager to have you back on your feet."

With those parting words, and a brief wave, the Prince left her room, headed for destinations unknown – destinations that could _stay_ unknown, as far as Quinn was concerned. She'd seen the bureaucracy Garen and Jarvan had to contend with on a daily basis – she'd pick a deep-cover assignment or long term track-and-apprehend over that _any_ day. Still, the curious new directions her failed 'mission' had taken had left her as exhausted as any political business.

An ancient ruin, uncovered by blood, a broken weapon, forged in a material nobody can actually identify due to it being _embedded in a young man's arm_, a rogue Grandmaster, showing signs of morality for the first time since… well, _ever_, and a violence-crazed spirit that can create physical weapons from blood-red smoke – all rolled into one convenient package.

Quinn sighed. Had she been an _ounce_ less professional she'd insist this stuff goes beyond her job description…

* * *

With a mastery of the overall layout of the building spawned through countless hours spent traversing it, she strolled through the hallways of the Institute's hospital wing with a determine gait. What little midday light entered through the half-drawn blinds danced across her pale blue skin, and highlighted the brilliant, warm hue of the dress she had become fond of wearing, and a serene smile played across her lips as she strode. After all, a patient's discharge was often reason enough to smile – and this particular patient had shown a _remarkable_ rate of recovery.

With this in mind, Soraka hummed a somewhat happy tune as she went. Her destination – the room of one Garret Hillock – wasn't far now and, prone to fretting and faffing as she was, she couldn't help but want to do a last check-up, as she did with all her patients. Garret had been in a poor state when Jax had brought him to the Institute, but her own healing abilities, coupled with the magics of the Senior Summoners, had just about eased enough of the young man's ailments to warrant him being up and about.

Granted, the High Council had bound him to some form of magical tracker to keep tabs of his location, but as the young man himself had repeated to several Summoners, it was a small price to pay in exchange for walking about without jumping at his own shadow around every corner.

As the white door loomed ahead, she found herself checking over the files clutched in her arms. His bones had mended near-perfectly, his sicknesses and diseases had been lessened to the degree that simple prescription antibiotics could successfully eliminate the rest of it completely. All that remained was the malnutrition and the slight atrophy in the majority of his muscle mass – but those were things that couldn't be 'healed' in the same vein as a standard injury. Only time would help him recover from those – and as much as it made her waver to think so, the young man would have ample time and opportunity to cure it; whether in the Institute, or in prison.

As much as the thought saddened her, she had to admit it was an all-too-likely scenario.

All she could do at this stage was hope for the best, as she had done with all her previous patients and would do with all her future ones.

She briefly recalled what had happened several days earlier, the early morning that Garret had recited his part of the story to her and Akali. After the Fist of Shadow had left, it took but a mere touch-up and she deemed it safe for the Summoners to suppress whatever had been taking refuge in that dark, sinister-looking arm. It had started out roughly enough to give her pause – the arm had _flared_ to life upon somehow discerning the Summoners' intent, and ever so briefly there was a tint of red to Garret's emerald eyes. He had winced from the pain, and inhaled sharply, seemingly fighting off the influence – but within moments the arm grew docile, as if it had sensed _something_ in Garret's mind that gave it pause. The rest of the suppression had gone off without a hitch, and by the time the little ritual was done, Garret was sporting a rather lavish jewelled chain on his arm, weaved around the shards and forming intricate circles around his wrist and elbow.

She had tried to perform an analysis afterwards – a set of questions she asked anyone who went through some form of magical or spiritual suppression in the Institute, but… She never even got a chance. Garret had blacked out mid-sentence, and upon the seeing the look absolute peace and serenity on that gaunt face, the Starchild just couldn't bring herself to wake him.

He had slept for an astounding _twenty-two hours_ after blacking out, and for but a moment she had feared whether the suppression had made him lapse into some sort of coma.

Yet her fears proved unfounded when she had strolled into his room a day and a half post-suppression, and found him sitting upright in his bed, chatting amiably with a Summoner who had been assigned to monitor the effectiveness of the seal. His pallor no longer resembled that of a corpse, and the pitch-dark rings that had weighed down the flesh under his eyes had receded to a mere shadow. A good night's – or _day's_ – rest had proved a better remedy than any of the Starchild's own magics, and she couldn't help but feel happy for him upon seeing the once downtrodden soul so energetic and peaceful all of a sudden.

And today he was finally getting discharged. Yes, he was still confined to the Institute of War, but still – despite Garret's courteous demeanour and prim-and-proper mindset, even the foggiest of minds could detect the slight excitement at the prospect of a semblance of _freedom_ in Garret's eyes. She recalled the one morning Jax had stopped by, to check up on his new buddy, and the Grandmaster had loudly declared that he and Gragas were dragging the young man to the closest bar they could find the day he was discharged.

Naturally, Soraka herself had tried to intervene and inform the Grandmaster that the young man's health was still not at a hundred percent, but a few quick leers from Jax disguised as questions aimed at Garret had left the Starchild so flustered she couldn't function for a few moments – a few precious moments that Jax had exploited to slip away and avoid her reprimand.

She shook her head. Always the troublemaker, that Jax. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind, she stopped in front of her destination, reached out, knocked twice, and entered.

The first thing she heard upon entering was the very loud _rip_ of fabric tearing beyond mending, and an exasperated sigh of "Oh, gods above…" At first the sound coming from the small bathroom cubicle confused her, and she stepped forwards to get a better look at what was going on. Her eyes settled on an array of discarded shirts on the bed, most of them with their right sleeves completely shredded. Only then she recalled that the shards sticking out of Garret's new arm were actually _sharp_, and chuckled to herself as she pieced the information together. "Hell with it," she heard another mutter from the enclosed cubicle, and yet another muffled _rip_ echoed through the eerily still room.

Just as she wondered what on earth was going on, Garret himself emerged from the cubicle, and Soraka raised a hand to her lips, if only to try and mute the slight chuckle bubbling in her throat. While the (hopefully former) deserter was dressed as commonly and casually as possible, the entire right arm and shoulder had been shredded away. It didn't seem like it was caused by a blade – or shard – either; Soraka's guess was that Garret had tired of struggling and simply tore his shirt to provide for his spiky new appendage.

She took that moment to take in his appearance, now that he didn't look like some shambling husk of a man hobbling along. His clothing was almost banal, consisting of dark pants and a white shirt. However, apparel was something the Starchild wasn't interested in. Instead she focused on the more physical aspects – a quick look at his face showed that he had at least shaved again. Granted, there was still stubble, but it mattered little – it looked more rugged than outright dirty anyway. The long mane of dark hair remained, probably out of habit after so long on the run, but he had at least tried to remove some of the dirt from it. She realized she mistook most of the gauntness in his face – it turned out Garret was a very thin, wiry individual, more lanky than outright muscular or fit, and his face displayed this without error.

All in all, she decided, _not_ the kind of person who she'd expect to make Jax and Quinn wary of danger.

He stopped the moment he saw her, though, and his eyes widened slightly. "Miss… Er… Lady Soraka," he sounded honestly surprised, as though he hadn't expected to see her again so soon. He strode forwards a few steps, a slight smile etched onto his face, and even in the dimmed midday light it was obvious how many wonders some honest rest did for the man. "I was not… I didn't think I would see you again so soon, ma'am," he spoke reservedly. "What with getting discharged and all…"

Soraka smiled at the somewhat timid way Garret was speaking. "I don't easily forget a patient," she said cheerfully. "Call it a habit of mine, but I like doing a final checkup before I send my patients off. If only to reaffirm certainty."

Garret seemed to deflate a bit. "I… I will not need to take my shirt off again, will I?" He asked almost fearfully, an act that stirred yet another chuckle within the Starchild. "Trying to clothe oneself with an arm like this," he said glumly, beckoning towards the offending limb, "is both an exercise in futility and a catalyst for many, _many_ frustrations."

"Hence the shredded sleeve?" She ventured a guess, smiling as she motioned for him to sit down on the small chair set aside. It seemed as though Garret was about to retort, to at least _try_ to explain why he now owned seven shirts lacking a right sleeve, but for some reason he decided against it, chuckling as he abstained from commenting. "You're recovering at a rate that surpasses all our expectations," Soraka mused as Garret took a seat on the small chair. She placed one hand on his forehead and another on his chest, and in the midday light her magics glowed earthen green around him.

"I… I'd rather refrain from questioning it," Garret shrugged, closing his eyes as the magics surrounded him. "At this point I'm not questioning anything anymore. I… I want all of this over and done with as soon as possible. If some irregular recovery helps speed that up… then I will hardly even ponder its meaning."

"You sound like you've done some soul-searching these past few days, Garret," Soraka mused. There was still an irregularity here and there – a missed bruise or two and the like – but other than that he seemed no worse for wear, malnutrition notwithstanding. "Just a few days ago you were talking about freedom."

"In a way… That is still what I desire," Garret nodded, opening his eyes to narrow slits. "But… Ever since I came here… Since I've been able to rest and _think_… I came to realize just how sick and tired I am of running away. I have… I have come to terms with the inevitabilities of the future now. Whether I face absolution or prison… Both will put an end to the fear, and the paranoia, and the constant _running_…" He paused a bit, knitting his fingers together. "That, in a way, is also some kind of freedom. Not the kind I've been pursuing, but… not the kind I'd turn down either."

Soraka looked at him quizzically for a moment, before smiling slightly. "Have hope," she said in that soothing way of hers. "Your trial will be left not to a court or a judge, but to the Summoners of the Institute themselves. _They_ will look into your past, _they_ will find the truth and _they_ will be the driving force behind the verdict. And I can assure you, Garret," she said, placing a hand on the young man's shoulders, "that while they may be… a bit stuffy, at times, they are anything _but_ unfair."

The deserter looked at her, pondering something – it was almost as though she could _see_ the different thoughts in his eyes – before sighing softly, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips. "My thanks," he half-muttered, "for the words of encouragement. It makes the prospect of judgement seem much more bearable…" He said with finality, standing up and strolling over to the bed. "I've been told to report to the…" He hesitated, face twisting slightly, as if trying to recall something that eluded his memory. "The Reflection Chamber? I'm to meet with someone called The Judicator there. Do you know this person?"

Soraka chuckled at the deserter's cluelessness. "I know the Judicator, yes. She's involved every time someone new comes to the Institute, be they a Champion, a Summoner or otherwise. She's the closest thing the Institute has to an actual judge – while she's not the one making the verdict, her opinion regarding matters is highly valued. My guess is, she'll be the one overseeing your Reflection," she said casually, keeping her smile up. "But you needn't fear – the Judicator may be narrow-minded at times, but her spite is saved exclusively for her sister."

"I will…" Garret trailed off, sighing a bit. "I will be sure to keep clear of the latter, then," he said with finality. "I don't intend to go stirring up any more hornet's nests. I… Selfish as it may sound of me, I would rather avoid any further conflict or strife – especially not with my hearing coming up."

"When are they expecting you?" Soraka inquired. The Institute had a track record of mysteriousness when it came to Judgements, be it for a Champion or Summoner. Some were kept waiting for weeks, months even, while others were judged on the spot. The Shadow of War, she recalled, had been led to the Reflection Chamber within moments of arriving at the Institute's metaphorical front door. She chanced a peek at Garret's mutated arm again, wondering just how much Summoner attention that fiendish spirit warranted…

"Four hours from now," Garret said, noticing Soraka's gaze and tucking the offending limb behind his back. His face kept that same soft smile, and there was little hurt or anger in his eyes, but the gesture in and of itself said enough – the arm was still a sore subject. "They've decided to try and get everything over and done with today. After my… my 'Reflection', the Judicator will try to make contact with… Well, she'll do her part," he said, somewhat stiffly. "I am… merely worried about one of the aspects of this little Judgement," he said, somewhat warily. Upon seeing Soraka's confused look, he supplied her with an answer. "Prince Lightshield has requested to be present. Captain Crownguard as well."

Soraka's eyes widened slightly as she processed the news. What interest could Garen and Jarvan IV have in this young man? Sure, he _was_ a Demacian, and a convicted criminal at that, but… She frowned. Could this have something to do with Quinn, and her subsequent defeat at Jax's hands? If it were she couldn't fault the Crown Prince – Quinn had been in a truly sorry state when Jax had brought her in, nonchalantly claiming that he 'put her in her place', as an arrogant man like himself was wont to do.

Briefly, she wondered if it could have been because of the spirit in his arm – after all, it _did_ seem combat capable, going by Jax's report. But she shook such concerns from her mind – with a spirit as malevolent as the one in his arm, it seemed more likely Demacia would opt to _destroy_ it rather than –

And at that precise moment, recollection dawned in her mind, and her features saddened as she recalled what they had discovered while the deserter was sleeping. An in-depth analysis of the suppressed limb revealed something equal parts terrifying and tragic: the flesh had been twisted and mutated far deeper than a simple limb. The Summoners had found strands of corrupted muscle and sinew and even bone leading deeper into his torso, and the arm's corruption had secured an unrelenting grip on the young man. The dark flesh had latched onto several important arteries and muscles – including several around his spine and heart. Complete removal of the arm would be dangerous, possibly _fatal_ at that.

She had briefly recalled Garret's reaction to this news. While she could not lay claim to know his entire reaction, she had seen every trace of colour leave his face as he asked to be left alone. It was difficult to discern his emotions then – she could see sorrow and fear in his green eyes, and a slight slump in his body language.

But that was then. Whatever Garret had told himself, or discovered about himself, had eased that negativity – there was no hint of it now in his body language at all. He seemed… relaxed, almost. As though he merely couldn't care anymore.

Soraka made a note to have him called in to speak with some of the Summoners – it was better to be safe rather than sorry, and if Garret was actively repressing his emotions in light of his new limb, it could spell untold amounts of disaster; _especially_ if the spirit had access to them.

"I cannot fathom why they would even care about some lad from the city's poor district," Garret continued, pulling the Starchild from her reverie, "but I won't question it. Mine is not to make demands – I've been given opportunity enough as is. I'm scared, I admit – I'm downright bloody terrified of even being in the same room as the Captain of the Vanguard." Garret gazed out of the window as he spoke, his eyes misting over in remembrance. "Monster of a man, stood almost twice my height and I was a teen at the time."

"Their presence," Soraka spoke, nodding slightly, "is highly unusual. It has been… ages, since another Champion was allowed to be present during the Reflection. However, while unusual, they also hold very little sway," she said resolutely. "The final verdict is still in the hands of the Summoners. Should they draft you into service to the Institute there is little anyone else can do regarding the matter. If your words contain truth, then the Reflection will prove it. At the very least you'll be cleared of the murder charge," she said with a smile. "Have you thought about what you can offer, though? Should the Institute conscript you, that is. You've been running from a soldier's life for more than a decade so I highly doubt you'll be up for fighting in the Fields of Justice."

"I…" Garret trailed off, scratching the back of his head. "I have not truly thought about that, ma'am," he said truthfully. "I've been so focused on what lies ahead, and on fighting off this_ damned_ arm… Other trains of thought eluded me." He paused for a while, deep in thought. "I have been studying linguistics and archaeology. Granted, I'm no prodigy, but I feel I've fared better than most. Is there some place in the Institute that could use such talents?"

"Well, the Prodigal Explorer, Ezreal, often commissions support for his various expeditions, so you might have some luck there as far as the long term is concerned," Soraka answered, also deep in thought. "Although… The notes the Summoners obtained from you show you're quite the bookish sort. If nothing else, your knowledge could be valuable as far as the Institute's library is concerned. I…" She trailed off, pondering something. "The Institute's library is overseen by Nasus, the Curator of the Sands. I can speak with him, if you would like? I'm sure he's got no qualms with extra help – the library is a massive place, after all – too massive for even an Ascended hero of Shurima."

"It… It would be an appreciated gesture," Garret nodded. "I dare not place too much hope in what may happen should circumstance favour me, but… the support is… I don't know what to say, ma'am," he trailed off.

"You needn't say anything," Soraka said with a chuckle. "And you needn't call me 'ma'am' either, Garret. While the Institute is not exactly informal, it's not all prim-and-proper protocol either. Calling me Soraka is just fine," she said with a smile.

"I…" Garret trailed off again, an argument seemingly dying out in his throat, and he shook his head with a smile. "I guess that would be preferable, then. The constant formality must become quite grating after a while," he mused as he turned to the bed again, lifting a dark cloak off his pillow. "Do you… Do you think this will do, to hide my arm?" He asked earnestly. "I do not feel completely comfortable with it yet… The last thing I want is for people to be making vocal observations."

Soraka's gaze softened slightly. Much as he hid it, it seemed Garret still felt some semblance of shame regarding his new limb – even more so after it maimed that one doctor after he was admitted. Granted, Soraka had utmost faith in the Summoners' magics, and she was certain that whatever rested within his arm now would be kept at bay until he decided otherwise, but still… The being had attacked two Champions of the Institute already. "It will do just fine, Garret," she said reassuringly. She knew better than to try and tell him otherwise. The Institute itself had its fair share of Champions with unusual physical traits. Garret himself would not be the first, nor the last, but nonetheless, if he wished to keep his arm hidden, she would pay it no mind. "It appears," she said, suddenly remembering the rest of her work, "that I've allowed myself to wander," she said with a smile. "My little 'last checkup' is all done, Garret – I find no further ailments." She smiled at him, nodding once and turning towards the door. "Much as I'm up for conversation, I'm afraid I have more aid to offer elsewhere, and such, I must be going," she said with a smile, pulling open the door. "I wish you all the best with your Reflection, Garret," she said sincerely, and turned to leave.

"Ma-Er, Soraka!" She heard the young man call out behind her, and curiously she turned back around, eager to hear what could have caused him to call out to her. Garret, for all his progress the past few days, still seemed slightly hesitant – she even heard him start with another 'ma'am' before cutting himself off. After a brief moment of doubt, however, his eyes cleared again, and he smiled, more radiantly than he ever had during his stay at the Institute. "I… Thank you, Soraka," he said with a sigh, slumping slightly. "For the words of encouragement. They… They work wonders for the soul."

Soraka merely smiled back at his declaration, matching his in both intensity and radiance. With her free hand she offered him a wave as she turned back around. She had done and said all she could – and while a part of her still couldn't help but fret over her patient, she realized she had little more to offer him. She heard him turn around as well, and the soft rustle of fabric signalled the large cloak unfurling. Any further sound, however, died out when the door to his room shut with a soft _snap_.

Idly, as she strolled down the hallways to her next patient, she wondered just what would occur in the Reflection Chamber. Garret was a kind young man, courteous, honest and respectful to the very core – but his mind seemed to be a very dark place, dampened by more than a decade's worth of fear and paranoia. A part of her believed that such a kind young man didn't deserve such a harsh life – but she had long since learned that circumstance was a demon that plagued a great many people, regardless of their hearts or minds.

Absentmindedly she wondered if Jax was going to wait at the Reflection Chamber…

…After all, having your mind read like a book was an _arduous_ process…

* * *

"Aye, I hear th' lad's getting his Judgment today?"

"It's not a Judgement. Well, I guess it is but it ain't like our-I mean, er, _your_ Judgements," The Grandmaster at Arms answered smugly as he strolled towards the Reflection Chambers. He never got tired of the exasperation, the confusion, and the downright ridicule his 'Judgement' had drawn from his fellow Champions, and being the individual he was, he never missed the chance to emphasize the fact that he was _such_ a total ace that the doors to the Institute just let him in – no questions asked.

Yup. The Champ was _just that good_.

"Say! If he's, if he's not gettin' Judged an all, then why's he gettin' a Judgement then?" Jax fought the impulse to shake his head. He really did. Gragas, as good a friend as he was, didn't exactly know what 'control' meant as far as his grog was concerned. He blamed that other Freljordian Summoner, really – cute enough lass as she was, she was sorely lacking in judgement – especially when smuggling Gragas new components for his grog. Barely midday, Jax realized with a slight wilt, and Gragas was already inebriated. Well, as inebriated as Gragas could get.

"Because," Jax started, twirling his lamppost in his free hand, "the higher-ups want to get his side of the story. All things considered, Demacia's still short a double agent now, and, well… They're baying for blood."

"Apart from their regular bayin', eh?" Gragas laughed, uncorking the massive cask of grog he carried with him and guzzling down a few gulps. "This the lad ya said ya gonna bring to my bar?"

"The exact same one," Jax nodded sagely. "I figure after, oh, I dunno, _thirteen damn years_ on the run the best way to celebrate his freedom is to get absolutely shit-faced."

"Ya so sure he's gonna get the clear?" Gragas asked, raising an eyebrow. It was odd, the way his whole beard seemed to shift in tandem with his facial expressions. "Last I checked the lad's status was still unde-er… up in the air," he slurred, shifting the cask under his arm. "And there's some mighty troublin' rumours goin' about, bud," he said in a warning tone. "Stories drifiting around me bar, that Prince Whatsit's gonna be sittin' in."

"Yeah, I heard Prince Jawline was gonna be a part of it," Jax shrugged his shoulders. "Not much he can do about it, though. Last I checked he was just your everyday average prince – not a High Councillor."

"An' what about Kayle, then?"

Jax raised a finger, poised to make a witty remark, only to have it die in his throat. "Ah. That bitch," he mused. He had completely forgotten about the Judicator's role in Garret's little 'court case'. The woman was, for all intents and purposes, the sole judge and jury when it would inevitably come to the matter regarding Garret's tenant. She was, after all, the person they were going to send in to make contact with it. "I… Fuck it, I'll be honest, I didn't even think about her," he admitted.

"Might matters difficult, then," Gragas said with a wary look, or at least, as wary a look as a half-inebriated man of his stature could give. "I'll admit the lass has her moments, but other than that she can be a right bitch."

"Noted," Jax said dryly. "Well, shit, this is something new. If that little spirit does anything to make Kayle go Crusader on its ass, it might spell trouble for Garret." It was true, to an extent – while Jax would admit Kayle could be quite kind and fair, she was _stupidly_ narrow minded at times, and many a time Jax could have sworn she was more a mindless slave to 'justice' than an actual enforcer of it. He frowned under his mask. It was also unlikely that Kayle would have much one-on-one time with Garret as well… so her verdict would be based solely on the spirit in his arm.

The spirit that, for the record, had tried to kill Quinn and himself and had maimed a doctor of the Institute.

"Fuck's sakes," Jax sighed. "Thirteen years on the fuckin' run and the kid's still facing shit around every corner."

Finally, he and Gragas appeared before the massive, marble doors leading into the Reflection Chamber. Jax would have liked to muse that he, like most other champions, had either fond or terrible memories of this place. It was the room in which potential combatants for the Institute had their minds explored, and where they deemed either fit or unfit to serve on the Fields of Justice. Jax would have liked to say he felt nostalgic at the sight.

Fortunately he didn't – because he was The Champ and didn't have any need for that fruity 'Judgement' bullshit.

Absentmindedly he lifted the large, decorative vase off the pedestal that flanked the large doorway, and sat down comfortably, setting his lamppost down beside him with a soft _clunk_. Hey, priceless antique or not, if The Champ wanted a place to sit he was getting a place to sit – no further questions asked. Idly, though, he wondered just what was waiting on the young man behind those doors. When he was called to the League he mistook the Reflection Chamber for just another boring, undecorated antechamber or some nonsense because _absolutely nothing happened_. Other Champions, though, begged to differ. Vessaria had told him that some Champions had even been reduced to tears within its confines.

Pft. Pussies.

Nonetheless, the knowledge proved worrying to the Grandmaster – from what he'd seen Garret was willing to face _death_ rather than go anywhere near anything from his past. He had no idea what could have spawned such an irrational fear and loathing of what happened – it was the first time he'd ever seen such a mindset. The Fields of Justice had unwittingly shown him how someone's past could break them – from Riven's stoic, downtrodden outlook to Lux's cheery, unfettered façade, Jax could have claimed to have seen it all – until he happened upon Garret, that is.

"Oy, she's comin'," he heard Gragas speak up suddenly, and as if on cue, he heard the somewhat muted cacophony of shifting armour plates coming down the hall. The lack of heavy, thudding footsteps clued him in to who it was already – after all, The Champ was hardly ignorant – and he barely bothered looking in the newcomer's direction, already seeing the reflections on the walls as the lights danced off her armour. The figure stopped, briefly, upon seeing him, and Jax felt a neutral gaze settle on him. Figures, that she'd be the first to arrive.

"Jax," he heard the Judicator speak, her tone crisp, yet controlled and devoid of intent. "I do not recall this Judgement being any of your business. The Summoners and I have everything under moderation and control – you do realize you are not needed here?"

"Yup," Jax chirped, finally looking towards Kayle's floating form. Ever ready for battle, her golden armour stood polished and primed, and her sword hung within arm's reach in a sheath on her hip. Despite being inside the hallways of one of the most powerful, heavily guarded places in all of Valoran, she still opted to wear a helmet. "You do realize I don't give a damn?" He asked casually, leaning back and – deliberately – nearly kicking over the vase he had removed.

Kayle's eyes narrowed behind her helmet, an action that had not gone unnoticed by Jax, and she curiously tilted her head. "What interest do you have in today's proceedings?" She inquired. "If this is regarding the deserter you brought in-"

"Actually," Jax cut her off, raising a finger and – much to his own ego's delight – silencing the Angel where she stood. Or floated. Whatever. "I'm here to support a buddy of mine. Poor guy's gonna have his mind taken apart like one of the Professor's little contraptions, and after that he's gotta deal with _you_," he said dryly. "I'd think he needs all the support he can get. Look, I even brought him a 'Good Luck' present," he said, patting the cask of grog that had been set down next to him. "This should be just enough to make his time with you more bearable."

Kayle, despite herself, merely uttered a tired sigh, closing her eyes. "There is no need for hostility, Grandmaster," she spoke softly. "I am not here to render judgement. I have merely been conscripted to make contact with whatever resides in the boy's arm. Mine is merely to inform the Summoners of the spirit's intent – the final verdict lies in their hands," she said as she floated past him. The marble doors creaked open, revealing the inky darkness it held. "Although I doubt saying any of this matters – your opinion of me is clearly unshakeable," she said as she disappeared into the shadows of the Reflection Chamber. "I have no intention of trying to change that," her voice rang out as the tips of her white wings disappeared entirely.

A few moments of silence reigned after the angel disappeared and the doors shut behind her, before Gragas chose that moment to speak up. "Well that coulda gone worse," he said helpfully.

"Eh. That woman…" Jax shook his head. Kayle was one of the few people in the Institute he simply could not read – she was unshakeable in her belief, unwavering in her outlook and unfaltering in her advance, but she never gave anything away. Even when faced with her sister she remained stoic and neutral, despite her body language screaming bloody murder at the sight of her arch nemesis. Jax didn't rightly care that the Judicator had shown the capability to be kind in the past. In her eyes, the world was a simple black-and-white place – and that outlook had caused so small amount of trouble for her, and not just with her sister. If she were to let that outlook cloud her while dealing with this ancient spirit, this _obviously_ alien influence…

"Shit," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'm gonna need some of that grog soon."

Suddenly, his day had taken a drastic dive – and if he was right about the Judicator, it seemed that soon, Garret's day would turn sour too.

* * *

He made sure to veer away from the beaten path in his journey to the Reflection Chamber. He had inquired if there was a less populated, less _popular_ path to his destination, for the sake of keeping the attention away from himself. He was but a lad from Demacia's poorer district, after all – a humble upbringing and more than a decade of pseudo-isolation and limited human contact had forged a man who felt drastically out of place amongst large amounts of people. Call it paranoia, call it introversion, call it fear – he himself did not care. He knew what he was comfortable with, and a large amount of company was certainly not such a pleasure. Smaller, more personal companionship was where he felt at home.

With his free, unbound hand, Garret pulled the hood of his cloak down a bit more as he briskly strode past a gaggle of Summoners chatting eagerly about an earlier match. A match of what, he was afraid to ask – these were mages, after all, magic users who held sway over every city state in Valoran. Father had always said magi were dangerous folk – anyone who could manipulate elements and warp reality with their mere thoughts were people who had to be strayed away from. Granted, the magic users proved more of a boon than a threat during his travels, but even then, the stories floated across every bar, every tavern and every trail of caravans he frequented.

The chains around his… around the _thing_ that now inhabited his arm danced under his cloak, their tingling rhythm muffled by the heavy fabric. Once again, he uttered thanks – to both the Summoners and every possible god or deity he had learned of – that his mind had been purged of the dark intentions that plagued it. He recalled, even now, how frightening it was – the whispers that drifted around his thoughts, and the way his vision would often _twist_, and display whoever he was looking at as a mangled, twisted corpse. He remembered how frighteningly _simple_ the wounds were, how the giggles and whispers egged him on to lash out and _end_ those who would do him harm. He recalled it all – and he was absolutely terrified by it.

Again he turned a corner, ignoring everything and everyone around him as he strode onwards. The voice, the whisper, the influence, or _whatever_ it was, it was silent now. He could think, he could speak and move and _relax_ without feeling his own body trying to betray him. He no longer had to fight against movements and impulses that felt so horrifyingly _instinctive_ he could have passed them off as the urge to _breathe_. It had been isolated, from both his body and mind, and despite himself, he harboured a small flicker of hope in himself that, after this ordeal, the thing could be isolated _permanently_. This was _his_ life, _his _body – for thirteen years he had fought tooth and nail for his freedom; he wasn't about to lose it to some murder-crazed ghost.

One last corner, he realized, turning right and keeping his gaze forward. He saw the giant marble doors, right at the end of the hallway – they were as lavish and intricate as the rest of the Institute, adorned with runic carvings and illustrations and floral patterns around the edges. Even to those who did not know it was the Reflection Chamber, it was easy to see the doors led somewhere important. As he neared the doors, though, his focus jumped from the marble itself to the two people sitting before it. "…Jax?" True to form, the Grandmaster sat on one of the pedestals surrounding the door. He looked no different from other days – his purple cloak still stood out like a sore thumb and the multiple sockets on his mask glowed the same azure hue they always did. Jax himself was being accompanied by… a rather _stout_ individual, whose immense girth was decked in odd, tattoo like markings. Garret's eyes widened slightly; even with the three-or-so feet of beard covering it, the man's outrageous belly was still one of his defining features - the lack of any clothing apart from some kind of modernized loincloth, even more so.

Absentmindedly he reminded himself it would be impolite to be horrified at the sight.

The Grandmaster took notice of Garret, seemingly recognizing him despite the cloak, and laughed as he stood up. "'Bout time you got here! Everyone else is here already."

"I…" Garret trailed off, looking at the two people before him. "I took a less conspicuous path. I am… not exactly a people person," he said somewhat timidly. "At least, not where large volumes are concerned. What… Not to sound ungrateful, Jax, but why are you even here?"

Jax merely laughed again. "What do you mean, why am I here? We're waiting on you," he said cheerfully. "It'd be shitty if you had to walk in there on your own. Well, you gotta do it on your own anyway, but it's a figure of speech. I figured I'd come wish you good luck in there," he said, placing a hand on Garret's shoulder. "Also!" He perked up, as if he forgot something. He quickly turned to his accomplice, lightly punching the larger, rounder man on the arm. "This here's Gragas. Good friend of mine, makes a _mean_ grog. You'll see soon enough," he said with a chuckle. "I'm dragging you to his bar as soon as you're done."

Garret glanced at the man named Gragas again. The stout man seemed slightly inebriated, but offered a toothy grin regardless. "So you're the lad whose hide Jax saved," he said heartily, extending his hand. "Good ta meet ya, lad. I hear ya told Quinn off quite good – that takes hair on ya chest, I tell ya, and I respect people with hair on their chest!"

"Metaphorically speaking," Jax added helpfully.

Garret wasted no time, and shook Gragas' hand without hesitation. "It is… good to meet you as well, Gragas," he said sincerely, offering a smile under his hood. So far the rather rotund man seemed like a hearty person – he reminded Garret all too much of one of the bars he frequented in Noxus. He shook his head to clear it of the thoughts. This was not the time for nostalgia. "I assume I am to enter through these doors?"

"Real talky person ya found here, Jax," Gragas commented with a laugh. "He's a Demacian, alright," he said with a grin. "Anyhow, lad, you're right. These doors here," he said, hitting the marble surface with his fist, "will take ya right to the Reflection Chamber. Now when ya go through, ya might see some darkness. Okay, scratch that, you'll see a _lot_ of darkness, really – but just keep going. There's some weird magic in that room – ya can keep walking for hours if ya feel like it."

"Lucky for you, it won't come to that," Jax supplied, "because the Summoners aren't a bunch of dicks. Well at least not _total_ dicks. Ol' Vess is in there, along with two other people I really, really don't care about because Vess looks better than 'em both. You wouldn't say she's nearing forty, that's for damn sure," he said, before clearing his throat. "Anyhow, she's in there and she's spearheading this little judgment. So at the very least you don't need to worry about biased idiots chairing your little court case."

Garret nodded as processed the information. All of a sudden, reality caught up to him with _frightening_ speed and precision. The moment he stepped through those doors, his whole past would be laid bare, for everyone to see. He still was not entirely sure just how comfortable he was with that, but the alternative was much less preferable. He gulped slightly, and took a step forward. "You… You both, have my sincerest thanks – for both the aid and the company before this arduous trial. I cannot be sure, but I waver this would have been a lot more frightening if you two had not been here."

Gragas uttered a loud laugh, setting a giant hand down on Garret's shoulder. "Chin up, lad," he said with a toothy grin. "This'll all go without a hitch, just you wait and see. When all's said and done, mate, we're gonna get you so shit-faced you'll be wakin' up tomorrow night."

Garret smiled at the reassurance, stifling a chuckle at the bearded brewmaster's casual outlook regarding the Reflection. At the very least, he thought, was in the presence of two people who affiliated themselves with him with no ulterior motive. No curiosity, no pity, nothing – just sincere friendship, despite the vast differences between them. He nodded to himself, his smile growing just a touch wider. "I… For the first time in my life, I will admit that sounds like a wonderful idea," he said softly, striding past Jax and Gragas and placing his hands on the marble. "Well… The sooner I get this done, the better," he muttered.

Jax retook his seat on the small pedestal, resting his lamppost on his shoulder. "We'll be waiting, kiddo," he said reassuringly, with a slight nod of his own. "You take your time – we've got no battles for a while yet," he said.

Taking a deep breath, Garret nodded. No pressure, at least not from them. The marble doors were cold beneath his fingertips, colder even than the stony ruins he'd sheltered in during his treks through the Freljord. It was an unnervingly unnatural feeling, the way it seeped into his hands. Even his mutated limb, _deadened_ to all feeling, pulsed slightly under the chill. For but a moment, Garret wondered whether it was an omen of sorts, a foreboding sign of what lay waiting inside.

He shook those thoughts from his head without pause, though – he did not survive thirteen years as an outlaw through superstition, after all.

Exhaling softly, he applied the merest bit of force behind his hands. The dark, intricate doors creaked back, opening before him, and the darkness seemed to seep out from the small crack. Garret closed his eyes, though, and kept pushing. This was all that stood between him and freedom – be it absolution or incarceration, all his strife would _finally_ end – and a bit of shadows weren't going to keep him from reaching that end.

With renewed purpose, he opened the doors completely…

…and without the slightest hesitation, he strode into the shadows.

* * *

The azure glow of the Summoner's crystal painted the small side room an eerie shade – light intermixed with darkness and several Summoners, junior and senior alike, stood in a circle, manipulating the large crystal at their centre. In the confines of this dark room, High Councillor Kolminye had deigned it appropriate to do away with her hood. Garret Hillock's past was about to be revealed to them, and she could afford no obstructions to her view. Idly, she traced a gloved finger down the small, spike-like tattoo that ran down across her right eye, a memento from her youth, when she was rebellious and free-spirited. It had become a habit of hers, a pseudo ritual she partook in whenever she was overly focused or stressed, and given the company she was in now, it was safe to say she was both.

The Judicator herself stood next to Vessaria, her golden helm tucked under one arm. Despite the inherent beauty in her vision, the stoic mask currently settled there detracted from it slightly. It seemed she was on the verge of frowning, as she always was when dealing with such prolonged matters. Her eyes kept a steely gaze on the crystal, the medium which showed them what would happen inside the Reflection Chamber. Slowly, a streak of white appeared in the inky darkness, a sign that the doors were opening, slowly but surely. She stood at rapt attention, her posture straight and flawless, her wings tucked behind her, unmoving.

Off to the side, Vessaria's other two visitors were seated. Jarvan Lightshield IV, crown prince of Demacia, sat on one side, hunched forward, his mouth hidden behind interwoven fingers as he observed the crystal. His crown-like helm hung off the armrest, discarded as soon as the magical relay started, and his gaze was as focused as it was during a battle. Vessaria did not wager a guess as to what the Prince was thinking – after his journey to the Great Barrier, few people truly could.

To the other side sat the person who had provided the final piece of the puzzle. Garen Crowngaurd, Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard, sat with every bit of tenseness his friend, the prince, displayed. Vessaria had done her research – Garen apparently knew Garret's brother at one stage. Undoubtedly, the large man had spoken to the young deserter in the past. It was no surprise, truly, that he too was there. In matters concerning the families of those who perished in service to the Vanguard, Garen rarely let simple procedure and protocol stop him.

She was as curious as they were, though – Garret had been nothing but friendly and polite ever since coming to the Institute, but his motives for abandoning Demacia still remained hidden. It was the one thing nobody could wrestle from the young man, and in a way, she thought it was for the better. Hearing a person's motivation through simple verbal communication… it was a practice that bred neither understanding nor sympathy. But seeing their memories, their _minds_… Knowing what truly laid in their hearts and souls… such was the purest form of truth one could find.

Through the crystal, she saw the doors crack open wider, and she steeled herself, adding her own magics to the ritual.

It was about to start – they could spare no missed information.

* * *

It had become so difficult for him to move. Literally, everything, everywhere he _looked_ was nothing but darkness. It swallowed all colour, all texture, all patterns and objects, and left nothing but a black, horizonless void. He couldn't even see the floor before him – the darkness played with depth perception, and every step he took was made with almost _fearful_ consideration. His right arm ached again, almost straining against the chains that bound it, and frantically, he started pulling at his cloak as he felt the cloth wrap tighter around him.

It all ended, suddenly, when a burst of bright light blinded him with such sharpness and force that he was sent tumbling backwards. His back slammed down on a soft, almost comfortable surface as a wave of cold wind washed over him. The constrictive fibres of his cloak almost washed away, flowing off him and disappearing into the white abyss around him. Sweat caused his shirt to stick to his chest and back, and grudgingly he shuffled to his knees, hand on his face to try and block out the light.

When he opened his eyes again he found himself in an all too familiar place. He was on his knees inside Demacia's Memorial of Honour, a graveyard dedicated to those who perished in service to the city state. Damn grass soaked his knees, as well as the small backpack that laid beside him, but for some reason, he couldn't care. It was nighttime, he realized – a beautiful full moon shone down on the graveyard, dispelling any eeriness or spookiness one would normally associate with a graveyard. It provided the only source of light – mist clung to the rooftops in the distance, and small clouds drifted around the pearl above, but other than that, not a single light was to be seen.

The cold wind assaulted his face again and absently, he raised his right arm – his normal, untainted right arm – to wipe away what little wetness remained in his eyes. Father wouldn't have wanted to see him crying this long after his passing – nor would his brothers, at that. They had lived their lives the way they had wanted, after all… But this would be the last time. This would be the final goodbye.

Unbidden, the memories flooded him. He remembered his father tentatively sitting next to him as he was in the process of devouring a book, and the two had timidly started talking about its contents. Offhanded comments and blunt observations soon turned into excited chatter and raucous laughter, and the memory of the sheer _joy_ he had felt that night tore into his heart like a cold, steel dagger. He remembered his father buying him more books to read in the days that followed, an act that confused him to no end. His father wanted a soldier, did he not? He thought up Garret's name with the idea of naming a soldier. And yet, here he was, indulging in Garret's own definitely-not-soldierly hobby. He remembered cornering his father one night, asking why. Why raise a scholar if he so dearly wanted a soldier? He remembered the answer shook him, reduced him to a bumbling mess that night.

"I care not for what path you take in life," his father spoke to him. "I care that you live free, and happy, the way you wish to. Soldier, scholar or otherwise, Garret – you are my son, and I will love you as such regardless."

The brass objects in his hand chattered against each other as he started trembling before his family's graves. Anew, the tears streaked down his cheeks as he recalled every happy memory. Every kind thought, every fun game, every bedtime story his father and brothers had entertained him with when he was but a lad – they flew through his mind and reduced him to a sobbing wreck once more, and his fingers curled around the objects in his palm.

All the joy in his life, all the positivity, and happiness, and _love_… all ripped away, for another's ideals.

He recalled anguished whispers escaping him that night as he gazed at the three brass medals in his hands. Constant whispers of "I'm sorry" were lost in the dead silence of the graveyard, swallowed up by the spirits resting there. Almost cautiously, he reached out and relinquished his grasp on the medals. He placed one on each grave – his father's and his brothers' – and almost tenderly rearranged the flowers in the vase sitting before his mother's tombstone. It was… the least he could do – both for them, and for himself.

He was going to miss his window if he dawdled any longer, he realized amidst the anguish and the agony. Using his sleeve, he tried to stem the flow of tears as he stood up. He cast a final gaze at the white, marble tombstones before him. His family – this would be the last time, in all likeliness. In a way, he wanted to say a few final words – a final goodbye, a final 'I love you', _anything_ to stem the hurt of leaving them behind – but the knot in his throat was simply too thick.

He was but a teenager, after all – not a man, not a soldier, not a fighter. Just a simple teenager…

He forced himself to turn away. Despite the immense burning sensation he felt right to the depths of his very soul, he forced himself to turn his back on his family's graves and walk away. His window was getting smaller by the second – if he missed it he was doomed to the same fate his father and brothers suffered. It hurt him, doing this – it hurt like nothing else in his entire life had, be it emotional or physical. It was as though he could feel his insides freezing over with every step he took, and yet…

He pushed onwards. He willed himself to. His father had said it himself – "I care that you live free, and happy, the way you wish to." Whether he was misunderstanding or not didn't matter – soon, none of it would matter at all. He had his route planned out, he thought as he dried his eyes again, using his other sleeve to try and clean his face. The guard on duty tonight was overworked, lax – his chance to slip by unnoticed. Slowly he strode forwards, dodging and darting through the dark alleys he had memorized by heart as a young lad. There, in the distance, he saw it – a merchant's caravan, standing outside a tavern. More than likely the owner was getting a quick drink before hitting the long road.

Slowly, with tread he had gained from trying to sneak past his brother, a Demacian Ranger – the best of the best – he crept forwards. Fifty feet became twenty, then ten, then five, and before he knew it, he was right beside the large wagon. He chanced a peek around him – hoping to remain unseen by beggars or night owls or 'lasses of the night' as his father had called them. Yet not a single light apart from the tavern's pierced the darkness – at midnight, Demacia could just as well have been called a dead city.

Nodding to himself, and gulping again to dispel the knot in his throat, he raised the leather canvas and hopped aboard.

The scene dispelled itself soon enough, fading back into a myriad of different shades of dark. Garret stumbled slightly, eyes wet and swollen, and he fought for some semblance of balance. A wave of heat and humidity struck him right in the face, drying his tears, and he felt several lashes of pain across his back. He gnashed his teeth, fighting the impulse to cry out from the sudden sting, and slowly climbed back to his feet. He felt the fibres of his shirt dissipate, and soon that garment washed away into the miasma of colour around him as well.

He found himself, this time, standing in a wide open space in a large tent. He was fumbling with his belt buckle, struggling to fasten it as he slowly paced around the carpet covered floor. The heat was damn near unbearable – even in the middle of the night, Shurima's heat stood as a force of nature, and the fact that he had slept quite fitfully made it even worse. Sweat clung to his bare torso and back, and his hair was matted to the side of his face. He strolled over to a rather large mirror off to the side, wincing slightly from the stinging sensation in his back, and turned to examine the source of the slight pain in the mirror's reflection.

He saw several scratch marks raking across his back. Normally such a sight would trouble him, but given the circumstances, he would grudgingly admit he'd suffered worse during times of brittle peace and comfort. He turned his gaze to the bed at the centre of the large tent, and his eyes ever so briefly traced the form of the tanned, dark haired young woman intertwined between the sheets. Smiling ever so slightly, he turned his attention away. Soft-spoken and patient as the woman was during the day, she was also quite a voracious lover. The marks on his back testified as much.

Eschewing a shirt, he stepped out of the tent. It was somewhat cooler outside, but the breeze was still too warm for his liking. Even in the middle of the night, Shurima was still the hottest place in all of Valoran. He let his gaze wander to the many tents surrounding him – it was this reason that he favoured hiding out amidst the caravans of nomads in Shurima. In their ranks, he was as close to anonymous as he could ever get. He took a step forwards, feeling his feet sink into the sands beneath him, and strode over to the camel he had acquired for his stay, calmly sleeping off to the side. It jolted awake, though, when it heard him approaching – but it was used to his presence. It offered half a bray as Garret neared him, looking at him curiously as the young man sat down beside it, resting his back against the camel's form. "Easy there, boy," Garret placated it, patting its side as he sat. The camel sneezed once and, content that it was merely its rider, tucked its head around and went back to sleep.

Alone with his thoughts again, Garret reclined against his mount. He cast his gaze upwards, at the full moon above, and the reason for his fitful sleep started pestering him again.

Five years.

Five years since he deserted Demacia, since he turned his back on his conscription and fled the city state. Five years since he had become a wanted man. After all, Demacia did not tolerate deserters – not with Noxus always looming on the horizon.

It had felt… much longer. He recalled that night before his family's graves clearly. He wondered if someone was still tending to the flowers before his mother's grave. She had been a beloved friend to many, after all – it was probably too much to hope for, but still… Better some hope than no hope at all. _Something_ had to keep him from his darker thoughts, after all.

It was at that moment that a faint rustling drew his attention. He looked back at the tent he had just exited. The flap fell shut as his partner the previous night strode towards him, one of the blankets wrapped around her body. She smiled slightly as she approached him, barely saying a word as she took a seat beside him. "You were tossing and turning all night," she mused as she rested against him. "I didn't hurt you too bad, did I?" She teased.

Garret uttered a half-hearted chuckle at the question, averting his eyes from any skin the blankets left uncovered. He was, after all, a polite, well-mannered man – just as his father had raised him to be. "I would think after three separate stints that I am used to your… 'quirks'," he said with a light smile as he turned his gaze back to the moon. "No, tonight is something… much different. Ghosts, you could say, of a life past… A life lost, really…"

"A life rejected?" The woman ventured, turning to look at him. "You know," she said, curiosity evident in her velvety voice, "you never did tell me _why_ you left. You're a smart man, aren't you, Garret? I've seen you in action after all. You might not be much of a fighter, but your mind… It's greater than any amount of physical ability. Had you stayed you could have become something great in that city, you know," she mused, resting her head against his shoulder again. "Your support… Who knows? It could have changed the city for the better."

Garret sighed forlornly as he processed the woman's words, his eyes never leaving the pale moon hovering above. "Why," he asked, simply. "Why should I support something that has brought me nothing but pain, and sorrow?" There was a hint of bitterness in his voice, as though he was straining to keep the emotion out of his words. "All my life, my father told me, 'Demacia protects'. He told me it was an ideal that would protect me from harm…" He trailed off. "What happens when the ideal that was supposed to protect me from harm, ends up harming me?" He wondered aloud.

"It sounds like your anger goes deeper than simple loss," the woman spoke up, freeing a slender hand from the confines of the blanket and resting on his arm. "Or am I misunderstanding?"

Garret inhaled – a deep, almost weary sound – before sighing again. "There is nothing to misunderstand. I don't have any underlying motives, or hidden agendas, or reasons within reasons. I… I was set to be conscripted into the military," he said hesitantly. "With my family dead and my sixteenth birthday over and done with, I was just an orphaned rat with bills to pay. I… I would have drafted regardless of what I felt about the matter." He paused for but a moment, resting one of his hands on the slender fingers on his arm.

"That city… That _ideal_…" He spoke, both anger and sorrow evident in his voice. "It took everything from me… I'll be thrice damned before I let it take my life as well."

And as he leaned back against the camel, he felt his surroundings shift again. Blindly, he stumbled to his feet – his vision swam, and most of his body had been matted with that ever-annoying feeling of pins-and-needles. Blearily, he stumbled forwards, and his surroundings faded into a horrendous brown. By the time he caught himself he was bent over a basin in a grimy bathroom in Bilgewater. Going by the aftertaste he had just emptied his stomach – unsurprising, considering the amount of alcohol he had consumed. And yet, he could not bring himself to care.

"You… you foolish, foolish woman…" He wheezed, struggling to retain his sense of balance. Unbidden the recollections assaulted him – he recalled that night in Shurima, where a close friend-turned-lover had offered him sanctuary amidst her people. Farah, her name was – a native to Shurima. He recalled the words – and nights – they had shared together, and how she had tried to comfort him when _that_ time of the year rolled around again. He recalled her tanned skin, dark hair, hazel eyes and all the joyous moments he had with her and her friends in the times he hid amongst them.

And to his own sorrow, he realized he'd never see her – or any of them – ever again.

Their caravans had strayed into unmarked territory due an error on Farah's part. She had been the one leading the convoy – and going by the survivors' tales she had led them right to ruin. He had been notified mere hours ago, yet still the sorrow stung.

The nomads had wandered right into the territory of the Xer'Sai – and they hadn't even noticed until the beasts had torn half of them apart already. Farah… had been one of the first casualties. The Xer'Sai pulled her and her camel into the sands, load and all.

Now, here he stood, in a filthy bathroom in a run-down tavern in Bilgewater, hoping that gratuitous amounts of grog could at least ease the sorrows. He had known her well – three times he had hidden with her people, and three times he had known a peace that eclipsed his stays anywhere else. Now… Now they were all gone. Dead, and most likely buried – all because of one fool's error.

Farah's error.

He sniffed, a loud and ugly sound, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. In the back of his mind his conscience rang out, calling to him. Farah had been someone very, very dear to him – and she would not have tolerated seeing him like this, not for her sake. Absently he looked down to his side, at the flask of grog he had dropped on his way in. This… This was foolish. Inebriation would leave him vulnerable, exposed, and that would lead to him getting caught – and Farah had sworn him death if he ever got caught.

The memory brought a smile to his face, a stupid looking smile on his drunken features, but at the same time it shook some sense into him. He cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyes. He was vulnerable enough as it was – it was time to retire to his safe house. He opened the tap and splashed filthy, yet icy cold water onto his face. The jolt was enough to cast away most of the alcohol's effect. With a sleeve he dried his face, and turned around.

The sound of a blade exiting its sheath was the first thing he heard. He saw blue eyes glaring at him, and a flash of steel danced in his vision, and before he had taken a single step he had a Demacian short sword aimed at his throat.

Whatever effects the alcohol had on him vanished in that instant. His mouth formed a thin, straight line as the sharp tip hovered mere inches from his adam's apple. The blade's wielder – a short, rather scruffy man with thinning hair and a ridiculous moustache befitting a pirate – narrowed his eyes at him. "Garret Hillock," the man spoke, his tone even, neutral. "By Demacian law I hereby place you under arrest. Raise your hands and place them on the wall beside you."

Panic set in almost as quickly as the inebriation had left him. A Demacian, _here_ of all places? And why did he even look like a pirate? Garret's eyes darted around the dirty bathroom, looking, _hoping_ for something he could use to turn the odds in his favour. The short dagger had purchased was tucked away in the small of his back – any attempt to draw it would lead to certain death. And yet…

"Are you deaf?" The Demacian man sneered at him. "Hands against the wall _now_! Or so help me, I will apprehend you through force!"

Garret matched the man's glare, and slowly raised his hands to his sides. In desperation, he wondered just how sharp the man's blade was – if he was lucky he could swat it aside at the cost of a few fingers but –

The sword came closer to his throat, a sign of its wielder's impatience.

…Perhaps a few fingers were but a small price to pay. Garret started calculating a plan as well as his drunken mind could – his movements were deliberate and slow, a desperate attempt to stall for time. Behind the sneer and the glare, Garret could see this man was easily as nervous as he was. Now, it was all a matter of –

The door to the bathroom opened, and a drunken woman, no older than thirty, stumbled through accidentally bumping into the armed man. "Ehe, I don't think this is the girls' ro-Uhm… Sir? What's going on here?!"

…now, it was all a matter of _timing_.

The Demacian man flinched, going wide-eyed as he tried to hide the short sword from the woman's prying eyes. "N-Nothing, ma'am! Nothing to see here, please, return to-"

The opportunity presented itself, and Garret grabbed it without question.

Darting forwards he _slammed _ his shoulder into the Demacian agent's now-exposed back. The force sent him tumbling forwards, sputtering and spouting obscenities, and the young woman screamed bloody murder as Garret shoved her aside and darted out of the restroom. "_Hillock!_" He heard the agent's infuriated scream behind him as he stormed down the short hallway, and before he had even reached the exit leading to the main tavern he heard the thunderous footsteps behind. "_Halt, Hillock!"_ The man's roar was one of both fear and rage, and Garret could _hear_ the sound of the blade whistling through the air.

He didn't bother trying to pace himself – in a drunken stumble he burst back into the main area, just as the agent's footsteps started echoing through his skull from the proximity. A plan slowly started forming in his addled mind as he desperately pushed past patrons and bouncers alike. Bilgewater was known for its bar brawls, after all – if he could instigate some chaos… He heard the patrons behind him yelp in surprise and fear – likely they saw the man's sword and were making way. Out of sheer desperation, he did the only thing he could think of – he swiped a bottle of rum from a nearby patron's hand and, with as much force as his weakened, intoxicated form could muster, he _hurled_ it to the side.

He immediately ducked down when he heard the bottle shatter in the distance, and in the action he could _feel_ the Demacian agent's hand weaving through his long hair, missing a grab by mere _miliseconds._ He scurried forwards, eager to avoid the chaos that would ensue as a loud "What the _flying fuck!_" thundered across the bar. He heard the sound of a fist slamming into someone's face, then the sound of a bottle breaking, and before he could even blink, anarchy was born all around him. "Hillock!" He heard the agent yell, and mistakenly, Garret looked back. The old man seemed enraged as he stormed towards Garret, blade at the ready. "Don't think this will stop me, Hillock! You're coming with m-"

Just then a fist collided with the agent's face, and he was shucked aside by the impact. "Tha's for the bottle, ya daft cunt!" Garret heard the agent's attacker slur, a mug of grog in one hand and a cutlass in the other. "Think ya can lug a bottle at _me_ and walk away, eh?"

Garret did not need another warning, or another sign. Keeping his head low, he made his way towards the tavern's front door. He winced as pistol shots began to ring out – this fight was getting uglier by the second, and Garret did _not_ want to be present when things went from 'brawl' to 'worse'. He kept his movements inconspicuous, as under-the-radar as possible as he slowly made his way to the exit. He had to stop short as two men rolled by in front of him, yelling curses and punching each other in various places. "Hillock!" He heard the agent yell out again – apparently, besting a drunken pirate was not an arduous task at all. He paid it no mind – he dodged here, ducked there, and crept through a particularly nasty part of the chaos, but in the end he saw it – he was literally five feet from the door.

Instinct took over – he forewent his inhibitions about remaining unseen and inconspicuous, and outright _rammed_ the door open with his shoulder, literally bursting into the alley outside and nearly knocking some poor lass clean off her feet. Still, he did not waver – he did not even care. He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, down cobblestone paths and into dark alleyways as the ruckus in the tavern was swallowed by the sound of the midnight seaside. He had gathered no small amount of looks, running through the slums – some of curiosity, some of ire, some of entertainment, even – but not once did he stop.

Only when his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out did he finally slow down. He was in a part of the city even he did not recognize – rats crept over bits of junk stashed outside worn-out doorways, and faulty lanterns flickered in the salty breeze that swept through the city. But in a way, none of it mattered. He slumped against a wall, sliding down until he was sitting, and unbidden, a laugh bubbled up in his chest. It spilled from his lips and echoed down the alleyway, undoubtedly waking some people and drawing the attention of others.

Yet still – he did not care.

There, in the darkness, he sat, with joyous, raucous laughter escaping him, until the shadows intensified around him. The laughter died down, and he felt his body go numb – the adrenaline was wearing off, slowly but surely – but it mattered little. He had slept in worse condition, after all. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice told him to get up, and get to safety.

But the night's activity rendered that voice moot. Slumping back and making himself comfortable, Garret allowed the darkness to swallow him whole, drifting off into a crazed, fitful sleep.

It was at this point that the scenery around him dispelled entirely, and he blinked artificial fatigue from his eyes. The shadows seemed to seep away, as though someone had pulled a plug somewhere, allowing the darkness to drain away. He realized abruptly that he was slumped against the walls of the Reflection Chamber, sitting in the same posture he had sat while in Bilgewater. The darkness kept receding, and a soft exhale – _definitely_ not his own – finally clued him in he wasn't alone.

He dared look up, and his breath caught in his throat – of the two people before him, one was overshadowing the other in every way. She… was truly a beautiful sight. Hair as gold as the sunrise framed blue eyes as cool as ice, and regardless of their lightless environment her armour seemed to shine on its own, casting a wonderful reflection on the pristine white wings that sprouted from her back. _An… An angel?_ Garret thought absently.

She raised an immaculately trimmed eyebrow as she noticed he was staring at her with a slack jaw, and quickly Garret shook his head to dispel such an impolite action. The second visitor was much less unique – most of her was covered by her Summoner's robes, leaving only amber eyes staring at him from under her hood. Absently he noticed the spike-shaped tattoo running down across her eye, and only _now _did he realize that the Summoner was actually kneeling. In the darkness he could have seen a look of worry on her face, but he passed it off as a trick of the shadows.

"I…" He started, unsure of what to say after his little blunder. He was still slightly out of breath, and his whole frame shook from reliving the experiences. "I realize I was… I was staring. How impolite of me… I am sorry, m'ladies," he said sincerely, with a shaky voice, and bowed his head as best he could. "I was… lost, you could say. I have… I have regained my bearings now."

"You needn't worry," the Summoner spoke up, smiling slightly in the darkness. "How do you feel, Garret?"

"I feel…" He sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the wall. "That was all… so lifelike…" He mused as he tried to calm himself. His nerves were shot, and it felt as though all the wounds around his heart had been yanked open – he had been expecting many things when he entered the Reflection Chamber, but what he had just experienced… It shook him.

"I must say I am impressed, Garret," the Summoner spoke, standing up again. "Most try to fight the Judgement once it starts. You, however… You did no such thing. It was as though you… accepted, that you were reliving those memories. It was as though you were used it."

"Thirteen years," Garret answered, finally getting dispelling the trembling that plagued his body. "Thirteen years, those very memories have been haunting my dreams at every turn. I hardly ever recall other moments in my dreams. Just that… Just death, and sorrow, and fear… After so long, m'lady, I dare say I am quite used to it by now. Usually… In the past, I got sick of it… I got sick of recalling nothing of my father but his grave. I got sick of recalling nothing of Farah but the report of her death…" He shook his head. "I used to get angry that I couldn't dream about anything else. Now… Now I've gotten used to it. I… At times it feels I am dead to the sorrow. Other times… it feels as though someone drove a knife into my chest," he said, placing a hand over his heart. "It is something I have learned to live with."

"You must have cared dearly for that woman," the Summoner said, a look of sympathy crossing her features. "Farah, was it? We saw more of her in the memories the Reflection Chamber laid bare. She… She was truly precious to you, wasn't she?"

Garret sighed in response, locking eyes with the Summoner. "More than you could ever know, m'lady," he answered truthfully. "More than I can bring myself to describe. I… I will not try to make such wonderful feelings and memories into something finite, something _describable_. I would rather remember the unfathomable emotions… even if my dreams decree otherwise."

"Her loss must have caused you unbearable pain," the Summoner noted hesitantly.

"I do not focus on the loss, m'lady," Garret answered. There was a unique type of conviction in his voice, despite how weak it sounded. "No matter how much her death hurts me… I will not grieve that she is gone. Rather, I will rejoice… that I was blessed enough to share in her life."

These words drew a wide smile from the Summoner, a _warm_ smile that relayed a sense of pride and respect. "Well said, Garret," she mused as she took a step back. "Well said indeed. Garret, my name is Vessaria Kolminye – I am a High Councillor of the Institute, and the one who chaired this little… 'Judgement'." She turned to face the Angel hovering at her side. "This is Kayle, the Judicator. No doubt you've been told of the role she will play?" Garret nodded once, and the woman, Vessaria – 'Ol' Vess' as Jax called her – smiled again. "Good, good. I will have you know that Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV, and Captain Garen Crownguard were both present for your Judgement. They have seen all that needs to be seen – the Judgement has revealed that you are, indeed, innocent regarding the charge of murder on your name. The Demacian Summoners – and the Prince, at that – are working towards having that particular charge dropped. Rejoice, young man – your freedom is that much closer."

At these words, Garret slumped back slightly. His entire body seemed to lose all its energy, but despite this, there was a small smile tugging at Garret's lips.

"Captain Crownguard," Vessaria started again, "has asked me to relay a message to you. He, himself, has a role to play in your absolution, so sadly he could not remain. However," she paused, studying Garret's face for a sign of… _something_, he guessed, "I will not be relaying that message. As tense as your relationship with Demacia and its citizens may be, I feel that his message is part of a conversation that is… strictly between the two of you," she said with finality. "Whether or not you speak to him is up to you. Now before you ask," she spoke up, effectively silencing Garret before the young man could offer much of an argument or formulate any words at all, "I have already taken the liberty of… getting to work, on your charge of desertion. Granted, we are still going to have the Judicator contact whatever is resting in your arm," she said, a sly smile appearing on her lips. "However, regardless of what she finds, we must admit that it is still a unique application of magic and, as such, we wish to offer you asylum," she said, "in order to help you with your latest struggle."

For several moments you could hear a pin drop in the dead silence of the room. Garret, much to his own ire, found himself absolutely speechless – he felt his body begin to quiver again, and he cast his gaze down, venting every ounce of willpower he could muster into not turning into an emotional wreck there and then. The sheer amount of emotion he was feeling was slowly but surely threatening to overthrow his inhibition – for the first time in thirteen _long_ years, Garret felt a sense of absolute, unbridled joy. It was a happiness he had not felt since his family had passed, a gleeful sense of peace and _freedom_ that caused his throat to knot all over again. He wove his fingers together, hoping to stem or at least _hide_ his shaking hands. "M'lday…" He started off, shakily at first. "High Councillor, I… I do not have the words to describe how… how thankful I am right now. I… I doubt I ever will, in all honesty…" Although his voice quivered, and his entire body shook, the smile on his face…

…It was one of the liveliest smiles he had ever shown.

"It is the very least we could do, Garret," Vessaria said. Off to the side, Kayle had floated towards the marble doors and exited, off to do something only she knew. "Would you like a few hours to rest? I will have no qualms with calling these Summoners back at a later time – I'm sure the Starchild has informed you that your health comes first here; that goes for everyone – Summoner, Champion or otherwise."

"No, no, I," Garret said, trailing off as he shook his head. Still quivering, he shuffled to his feet, keeping one hand against the cold stone walls in order to help him maintain balance. "I merely need a moment or two… to recollect myself." At that moment, the heavy doors to the Chamber opened up, and Kayle floated in once more. Only now did Garret notice the helm tucked under one arm – and oddly enough, she was carrying… a flask of grog? Yes, the Angel had a flask of Gragas' grog in one hand for some reason.

She stopped in front of him, and this time thankfully Garret had enough self-control to refrain from staring again. "Drink this," she said softly, handing him the flask. "I do not normally condone it, but with the way your nerves are acting up, I believe an exception is in order." Garret blinked, confusion evident on his face, but accepted the beverage nonetheless.

"My… My thanks, Lady Judicator," he said sincerely, bowing his head again.

"There is hardly any need to be _that_ formal, Garret," the High Councillor chuckled to herself. As Garret started downing the grog, she waved her hand at a part of the wall, and magic briefly flared along her fingertips. Several moments later the wall itself starting peeling apart – bricks rearranged themselves in odd patterns, shifting and turning as they split off to form an archaic arch in the far wall. Torchlight shone through the opening, finally bathing the dark room with some semblance of light. "The Summoners will be here shortly, if you are adamant about continuing," Vessaria spoke. "Fortunately the task will require very little of you, Garret – this time the task falls to the Judicator. All we need from you is calmness and patience. Can you do that for us, Garret?"

The former deserter drew his hand across his mouth timidly, wiping away the wetness his beverage had left behind. "I have an abundance of those at my disposal, High Councillor," he said confidently, despite the quiver in his voice. His shaking had died down, most likely due to the toxic beverage he had just seemingly inhaled, and his pallor was getting better by the moment. "What must be done?"

The Councillor smiled at him, as footsteps were heard coming from the archway. "Merely take a seat at the centre of the room," she intoned, motioning to the now-illuminated runic circle sitting at the mentioned spot. "As soon as the Summoners arrive they will use their magic to create a Focus – a medium, that we intend to use to establish communications."

"Will I… Will I have to remove the chains around my arm?" Garret inquired as he did as asked, sitting down and crossing his legs on the runic circle. There was something else in his voice now – an underlying fear that wasn't present during the Judgement. Vessaria knew all too well what caused that fear – she had read the Starchild's reports, after all.

"No," she reassured him, with one of those half-smiles people of authority and standing were known for. "No, I doubt that will be necessary. We High Councillors are aware of methods to bypass the suppression – you could say that is why I am here in the first place." As her words died down, several shadows blotted out the lights in the archway behind them, and from those shadows, four Summoners entered the Reflection Chamber. Their faces were hidden by their hoods, and they were adorned in cloaks of a deep, _deep_ violet – but despite the ominous appearance, it was obvious Garret felt no threat from them. They took their places around Garret, forming a haphazard pentagon around the runic circle. With a slow, measured gait, Vessaria herself strode over to the open gap and filled the last spot herself. "I do hope this doesn't disconcert you, Garret," she said lightly. "Most would be flustered at how quickly this is proceeding. Are you sure you have recovered enough? Are you entirely certain you do not wish to rest?"

"No," Garret shook his head, responding truthfully, a gesture that drew a muted chuckle from the four Summoners. "But High Councillor… I am unsure whether you are aware just how _badly_ I want this over and done with. I… I _need_ to know what the hell this thing in my arm is. I need to know what it wants, and I need to know how it will be dealt with. The sooner we finish this… The sooner I can discover those things."

"Admirable," she stated, before looking over at the Angel that had been hovering off to the side. "Judicator, if you will?" Upon being addressed, the Angel nodded curtly, hovering over to the centre of the little pentagon the Summoners formed. With two loud _clacks_ her armoured feet touched down on the cold floor and, tucking her wings in behind her, she sank down – first on one knee, then on both, until she was 'seated' comfortably. Garret, for his part, was oddly concerned – after all, effective as it might have been he doubted that armour was comfortable, _especially_ in that position.

"I… I am sorry, if this causes you discomfort, Lady Judicator," he said, his voice soft and apologetic. He frowned to himself – maybe it would have been better to wait, after all…

"Pay no mind to it," the Judicator responded with the _barest_ of smiles. "It must be done – as you have said, it would be beneficial to complete this task as early as possible."

Garret, unable to form an answer, merely nodded. He struggled for a moment, his dark cloak billowing around him, and after a moment or two he merely sighed. It seemed freeing his tainted arm was proving an exercise in futility. Grunting irately, he opted to remove the entire cloak – it took a moment, however, to find the one part that had somehow knotted during the Judgement. Finally achieving success, however, he tossed the garment aside. He did not need it bothering him now. He chanced a look at his malformed limb – it was the same as he remembered it from the morning; thin, yet muscular, and spiky; _very_ spiky. The shards of bronze-like material retained their sharpness despite numerous attempts to remove or blunt them. Even now, confined with the intricate runic chain, it pulsed and glowed, revealing almost _frighteningly_ detailed musculature beneath the dark skin.

This… This was not a human limb. He simply could not stress that enough.

He noticed the Angel before him was staring at the arm too. She seemed oddly perplex – as perplexed as one could look while maintaining a mask of stoicism. Around them, the Summoners raised their hands in a flash of _brilliant_ azure glow, their magics flared to life. It danced across the stone floor and rebounded off the walls, forming wisps of magnificent radiance that danced around the centre. Garret himself was taken aback by how absolutely _astounding_ the display was, and he couldn't help but wonder whether they were doing this on purpose. Even the Angel before him was smiling now – were Summoner magics truly so profound?

As one, the magnificent blue wisps started twisting inwards, gather between Garret and the Judicator. What used to be tendrils of mist started changing, _warping_, and before their very eyes a crystal orb started forming, rapidly growing in size as the magics around them converged. Even as the lights started retreating towards the centre of the room, the orb held a glow that shamed everything the Summoners had shown him so far. It was very, _very_ enticing just to reach out and run his fingers across the surface – but he decided against it. After all, beautiful as it might have been, magic still had the potential to be dangerous.

"When you are ready, Garret," he heard Councillor Kolminye speak up, "I want you to reach out with your chained arm, and touch its fingers to the orb."

Simple enough, he mused, looking down at his mutated arm. It glowed again, almost _eagerly_, and the chains surrounding it rustled just a bit, enough to make the links clink against each other. Frowning to himself, Garret raised his arm, and spread his hand apart. Four clawed fingers arched outwards as he moved the limb towards to orb, and just as his hand neared the concentration of magic, he lurched forward as the orb literally _sucked_ his hand against it. The brilliant azure glow was lost in an instant, replaced by a downright _sinister_ shade of crimson that made Garret regret even partaking in this act in the first place. He strained against it, trying to pull his hand off the globe, gritting his teeth as he leaned back and tried to get his limb back – but it was all for naught. His hand wasn't budging.

"Do not fight it, Garret," he heard the High Councillor's voice in his ears. The eerie red glow had shrouded the Summoners forms, leaving nought but black silhouettes against even blacker walls. "Relax yourself and ease into the magics. No harm will come to you – I promise you, Garret. Judicator, are you prepared?"

The Angel was the only person in the room Garret could still see. Despite the look of contemplation on her face she responded without hesitation – one gauntleted hand wrapped around the other's wrist, and with a simple, yet forceful tug, the golden handguard slid off, revealing slender, pale fingers befitting her angelic visage. She spared but a single glance – a single moment where their eyes locked, and for that single moment, she offered him a smile; a smile that rendered him dumbfounded. Then, without hesitation, she raised her bare hand and touched it to the orb as well.

Just as Garret had shaken his stupor away, the chamber _exploded_ into bright, almost unending light.

* * *

At first, there was nothing but a blank white abyss.

She did not truly know whether this was the norm or not – after all, this was the first time she had even done something such as this. However, she left nothing to chance – she was on her feet the _moment_ she had regained her senses, her removed gauntlet already reattached and her helmet placed firmly over her head. One hand rested on the hilt of her sword, ready for anything, while her holy energies focused themselves in the other hand.

Whatever this spirit threw at her, she would be ready for it.

It was at that moment that she heard it – over the blank expanse, across the white abyss, a soft giggle floated around. It echoed, really, in one direction, then another, a sound so soft a normal beig would have missed it completely. And as the giggle danced around her, Kayle frowned, wondering just what this spirit was doing.

Then the abyss _shattered_.

Giant, crimson cracks exploded into the blank expanse, _weeping_ crimson smoke into the colourless distance and painting what once was white a _murderous _shade of red. The cracks grew, expanded, _split open_, flooding the nothingness with more and more smog, and soon enough Kayle found herself surrounded by the odd vapour. It lunged, then, rearing like a snake before diving right at her – but Kayle was not mere mortal. With but a flourish of her unarmed hand her holy magics surrounded her, creating a golden blanket around her that outright _rejected_ the malicious smoke. It recoiled off her holy intervention, flinching back as if injured, before pooling around her little dome of safety, surrounding her entirely. Soon there wasn't a single shred of white left – merely the smoke remained, with herself hovering inside it.

Absently she noticed the tip of her wing protruded from her protective bubble, and she immediately withdrew it – only to flinch in abject horror.

The tip of her wing was covered in blood – and it was _not_ her own.

Suddenly, the origin of the smoke became clear: it was not smoke at all. She shuddered as the underlying horror afflicted her – she was drifting in a sea of _blood_, blood that had taken the form of smoke and mist. She repressed a slight shudder as realization set in. Blood was a liquid – what on _earth_ could have turned it into _smoke_?

As if on cue, the giggle sounded again – louder, this time, as if it waited right outside her dome.

And there, in the midst of the bloody vapour, she saw it – two glowing white eyes, a wonderful contrast to the crimson around it.

"…_D_o y_ou_ li_k_e _m_y w_ea_po_n_…?"

Immediately, Kayle raised her sword at pointed it right at the eyes gazing towards her. The blade shuddered, glowing gold, and by force of her own righteous fury the blade _blazed_, its length covered in holy golden flames. That voice… That voice seemed unnatural, _broken_ in a way - as though it did not even know how to emphasize different syllables at all. It resembled nails on a chalkboard, the scrap of steel on stone – all different kinds of unpleasant, wrapped into a dark tone she could barely begin to describe. "Speak sense," she demanded, her eyes narrowed behind the visor of her helm.

The spirit – if it could even be called that, merely giggled again. "_I d_o not t_hink_ I w_il_l… _Yo_u se_em_ _li_ke yo_u_ _co_ul_d_ be f_un_… B_ut_ I _w_i_ll_ not _sp_e_a_k w_it_h yo_u_… _N_a_ug_ht_y_ _lit_t_l_e _an_ge_l_…" The eyes shifted, _moved_, floated around in the clouds of smoke, circling Kayle and her little bubble of protection.

"What do you mean?" Kayle inquired, allowing her sword to drop just a little bit. "I'll have you know I am here to judge you, spirit. If I find you to be a threat to your host I will have you sealed away without mercy or hesitation – and right now you seem to be enough of a threat to make my task easy. So I suggest you cease with your games," she said, her voice intensifying in tandem with the fire coating her blade, "and come clean! What is your intent?"

The spirit giggled again, a cacophony of melancholy that seemed to originate from everywhere. "_M_y… Y_ou_ _**a**_**r**_**e**_ f_un_, ar_en_'t y_ou_…?" It said with a giggle, proceeding to pace around the Judicator. "…W_h_y, _sho_ul_d_ I sp_eak_ w_i_th _yo_u, w_he_n y_o_u a_re_ al_re_a_dy_ s_o_ e_ag_er t_o_ di_sbe_li_ev_e?" It asked, its tone jagged and _raw_. "…I _ha_d s_o_ _ho_p_e_d… t_ha_t m_y_ _hos_t h_a_d c_om_e to _v_i_si_t m_e_… 'T_is_ th_e_ le_as_t he c_oul_d do, af_ter_ I s_av_ed _hi_s l_if_e…"

"Saved him?" Kayle sneered under her helm. "Is that what you call it? You twisted a young man's limb and _cursed_ him with your vile presence! You tried to corrupt his mind with your vile presence, as you tried to steal his body from him! You tried to turn an _innocent_ young man into a _monster_!"

"_**I di**_**d **_**n**_**o s**_**uc**_**h **_**thing**_**!**"

Kayle flinched as two _absurdly_ powerful impacts slammed into her barrier, the force sending her careening backwards through the crimson fog. She spread her wings out in an attempt to halt her travel. By some impossibility she heard the nails raking across her barrier, and with a resolute cry she splayed her wings as far as they would go. The action halted her immediately, and in retaliation the flames leapt from her sword, flying through the golden, liquid-like dome intent on searing whatever attacked her to a crisp.

It was futile – the flames burned nothing but smog before returning to her blade and withering out. The killing intent, however, that projected _rage_, it still lingered – and the source of it was now barely five feet from Kayle's face. She saw it clearly – two handprints had embedded themselves into her barrier, sizzling from the contact yet remaining relentless, as though the contact barely fazed it. Before her the two white eyes shot her a glare fiercer than even the most battle-hungry Champions of the Institute could hope to muster. Her words had angered this spirit – that was good. Hopefully now she could get some answers.

"…_I_… d_id_ _no_t…" the spirit growled, the sneer evident in its shattered, inhuman voice. "…_yo_u t_hi_n_k_ I di_d_ _no_t s_e_n_se_ t_h_e_m_… y_o_u t_hin_k I _di_d _re_al_i_z_e_ t_he_ _d_a_nge_r… b_ut_ I _d_id… _I_ s_en_se_d_ t_h_o_se_ vi_le_ _m_a_gic_s… I s_en_s_e_d a k_ill_e_r_, b_ar_e_l_y _fi_ve d_amn_e_d _f_e_e_t_ _fr_o_m_ my ho_st_…! I _of_fe_re_d him… I _of_f_e_re_d _hi_m_ _m_y k_now_led_ge_… on h_ow_ to f_ig_h_t_… h_ow_ t_o_ k_il_l… f_or_ hiso_wn_ s_af_e_ty_ – f_or_ **o**_**u**_**r o**_**w**_**n **_**sa**_**f**_**et**_**y**!" The final cry was emphasized with yet another mighty blow to her barrier, and once again Kayle felt it shift under the force.

"Safety?" Kayle mimicked, disgust evident in her voice. "You claim you could sense danger, could sense a _killer_, but you could not even sense the distress you were causing your host?!"

"…Y_ou_ _w_o_u_l_d_ _no_t u_nde_r_st_an_d_…" The spirit snarled, and the handprints disappeared from Kayle's barrier. "…Y_ou_ w_o_u_ld_ n_e_v_e_r u_nd_er_stan_d…" It mused as its eyes drifted further and further away. Kayle frowned as the spirit made its retreat. "…Y_ou_… ha_ve_ al_re_ad_y_ d_ecide_d… s_o_ I… w_il_l n_ot_ tr_y_ to c_on_v_i_n_ce_ y_ou_… I _wi_ll sp_ea_k t_o_ my _ho_s_t_… and m_y_ h_os_t _a_lo_n_e… n_ot_ w_i_th s_om_e a_rro_g_a_nt l_it_tle a_ng_el… t_o_o e_ag_er t_o_ s_ee_ t_h_e s_in_ in _othe_r_s_… to _pa_y m_in_d t_o_ the _si_n i_n_ _he_rs_e_lf…"

"Where are you going?" Kayle demanded. "I am not done with you yet, spirit!"

"…_Bu_t _I_… a_m_ _do_ne… w_it_h y_ou_…" The crimson smoke receded, and patches of bright white begin to shine through the red clouds. "…I _wil_l s_pe_ak t_o_ _m_y h_ost_… an_d_ _m_y _ho_st a_lon_e…" it repeated, as the smog cleared, receded, _shrank away_ as the spirit itself retreated. "…_I_ car_e_ li_ttl_e… f_or_ _yo_u…" The white abyss had returned now, dominating what remained of the smoke and contrasting it to the extent that it almost made Kayle's eyes hurt. And yet, those damn eyes kept glaring at her. Even when there was only a handful of smoke left, the glare did not relent – not until there was not even a shred of crimson left on the blank horizon.

Even after the thing had receded, Kayle kept her guard up a while longer. The spirit had shown the strength to capable of attacking her with such force it could shift her barrier. Only a handful of beings in the Institute of War could lay claim to having that amount of strength. If it returned again, while he guard was lowered… She would rather not imagine the consequences of such an encounter. Still, the being had attracted her grudging curiosity – as a Judicator, she knew wholly when someone was lying. Seeing through lies was a mandatory skill for someone of her position – and as much as she did not want to admit it, while the spirit was hostile, violent and somewhat intelligent, it was not lying.

She remained that way – blade at the ready, posed to strike – for at least another five minutes. When it became clear the spirit was, indeed, done with her, she sighed to herself. In a way, she had failed – she could not discern whether the being was a threat or not. For that… Much as it dismayed her to admit it, they would need Garret himself to discern _that_.

Through her mental link with High Councillor Kolminye, she informed the Summoners that her business was done. It was unlikely that the spirit would return, given how much she had seemingly angered it. It seemed almost temperamental, with a hairline trigger to match its violent self. As they blue wisps of magic surrounded her, she couldn't help but wonder: Despite everything, despite all the suffering it had caused…

…was this spirit truly a foe… or was it a friend?

* * *

When the lights dispersed, she found herself back in the Reflection Chamber, sitting in the same kneeling position she had 'left' it in. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness – but most of what surrounded her was visible enough. The young man, Garret, had a look of utter concern on his face. His eyes seemed almost fearful, though – as though he dreaded what she had to say. She dared not look at the Summoners – at least not just yet. Much as she did not want to admit it, though, the tension in their stances spoke volumes. More than likely they knew of her failure already.

"Lady Judicator," Garret spoke up, ever formal and polite. Between the fear and the worry, it seemed the worry won out – despite everything pointing to the fact that, in this case, it should have been the latter. "Are you hurt?" He inquired. "It didn't… It didn't attack you, did it? The… The orb turned blue again halfway through, and my arm… it stopped pulsing. What… What happened?"

Her stoic demeanour denied her the chance to utter a dejected sigh. Almost listlessly, Kayle got to her feet, still not daring to look at the Summoners. "I… I have failed. I could not discern the spirit's intentions. There was a slight misunderstanding, and… we fought. Or _it_ fought, and I resisted. Still, it seemed angered, and refused to speak with me further." She glanced down at the young man before her, careful not to wince at his outright confused expression. Steeling herself, she uttered the words she doubted the man wanted to hear at all.

"The spirit says it will only speak with you, Garret – nobody else."

* * *

…**Aaaaand, cliffhanger! My sincerest, sincerest apologies for leaving it at such an uncomfortable note, but I fear had I written on this chapter would easily have breached 30K words – and that, is torment I would rather not inflict on you. 26K is bad enough – I **_**never**_** imagined that a simple expository chapter could turn into such a doorstopper. I am well and truly sorry – but I could not find an earlier place to break it off. **

**Moving on, though, in this chapter I've given you the first look into Garret's true personality, as well as the reasoning behind his desertion. I will admit I have no idea how this is going to be received – while I would like to stroke my own ego by believing he's a unique, fresh addition to the OC's currently in the section, I simply cannot be sure. For that, I will need your opinions – is he likeable enough to warrant more future PoVs, or should I stick to the canonical champions more often?**

**Also on that same note: Despite Garret's reaction to Kayle's appearance, this will ****not**** be an OCxKayle story. If anything, in this chapter I hope I've managed to set it up in such a way that I can hold out on any romance until much later in the story – it is a tenet of mine not to pair an OC with a canonical character unless that character is well received, and, well, I can't judge that from two chapters now, can I? **

**Nonetheless, I ramble, and I feel it is about time I ended this little post-chapter author's note. On a last impulse I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to the reviewers whose phenomenal reviews managed to egg me on to get this posted before Christmas:**

**tacitrunGenocide, SilverstormXD, Unseen Lurker, Guardian of All, Deftex and Scott the Anon.**

**This chapter goes out with special thanks aimed at you all – your amazing feedback and confidence in my ability went a long way towards getting this published. To you, I wish to say my sincerest thanks.**

**And also, my sincerest thanks to everyone reading this – knowing I can entertain you is what keeps me going.**

**Now I will end this note (for real, this time), by bidding you all farewell, and a very, very merry Christmas **

**Until the next chapter,  
Cheerio!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Pre-Chapter A/N: **

* * *

**Will of Iron, Heart of Gold  
Chapter III  
Alliance**

In the silence of the small, somewhat homey office she was offered, there was nary a sound but that of a pen gliding scratchily along faded, almost yellow paper. It had become somewhat of a routine for her, by now – practically her every day started and ended in this little office, opening and closing cases, running damage control, offering verdicts and courses of action and even placing the final stamp on an order of sentencing. Such was the somewhat tedious life the Judicator had inherited during her stay in the Institute of War – but it was hardly a chore. She had official battles, bouts of sparring on the Summoner's Rift, and the occasional sitting with close friends – few as they were – to break the monotony of acting as her title demanded her to.

Yet sometimes, even the little office could become constricted – and it had little to do with the lavish armour she wore.

With a somewhat gurgled sigh, Kayle set down her pen and eyed the paper before her with enough ire to set it alight, had she harboured the same magics as the Summoners. Sadly, the dark ink merely twinkled in the dim light, as if mocking her with the longevity of the events in encompassed. Gingerly, her gauntleted hands came to rest on her temples, tracing circular patterns in a bid to stave off the headache that was threatening to explode into her skull.

The case of Garret Hillock, and the rampant spirit-slash-wraith that had mutated and taken refuge inside his right arm…

…was a case that had landed her in quite a bit of hot water with the High Councillors.

Not only had she managed to fail _spectacularly_ at gleaming information from the spirit – due in no small part to her own hot-headed approach towards it – but she had also somehow forced the spirit into willing reclusion, a nonchalant state of non-communication that would maintain itself until the being's own demands had been met. This, of course, meant the Summoners would have no luck either – and given the fact that the 'tainted' flesh had weaved itself around Garret's spine and heart, High Councillor Kolminye was… _less than inclined_ to take a forceful approach regarding the matter.

The worst part of the scenario seemed to manifest itself in Garret's own psyche. Something awful spawned in the young man when he heard the spirit wanted _him_ and none other – behind emerald irises Kayle had easily discerned the wariness and the fear, and the resignation to some horrible series of events that only something as macabre and ominous as an unwanted spiritual guest could set into motion. The Judgement had… ended, rather abruptly afterward. Fear and uncertainty crippled Garret into inaction – the young man had literally _shut down_ at the prospect of having to meet his unseen assailant face-to-face, and as such, the High Councillors had called an end to the trial in the Reflection Chamber – an _indefinite_ end at that, one that would last until Garret was ready to face the wraith.

She inhaled, just a bit louder and longer than usual.

All of this drama, because of one damned spirit…

Narrow-minded and prejudiced as her outlook on the matter may have been, Kayle was certain the spirit was still ominous. All spirits and spectres and wraiths were, as far as she concerned herself. She had borne witness to ample proof during her stay in the League. She had witnessed scorn fuelled by an intent that could rival the ideals of whole city states, shrouded in a sickening, smoky visage as black as the illimitable night in Nocturne, the Eternal Nightmare, just as she had borne witness to the omnicidal pyromania and explosive hatred of Brand, the Burning Vengeance. She had seen first-hand the malice of the denizens of the Shadow Isles, from the sadistic, steel-linked form of the spectre Thresh to the unstoppable onslaught of shadows and death at the hands of Hecarim, the Shadow of War. She had seen the steel titan Mordekaiser rip mortals' souls from their forms with a variety of amusement, and even Kalista, who was widely seen as a 'neutral' party, wasn't exactly a shining example of benevolence, what with the legion of vengeful souls she commanded, and her homicidal loathing of even the most casual betrayals, like little secrets or tiny white lies.

No, in her experience, spirits – especially the violent kind, like the one ailing Garret Hillock – rarely led to anything good. It was for this reason alone that she had drawn the scorn of the High Councillors upon herself and advised Garret to _stay away_ from the spirit – to have it permanently suppressed as soon as mortally possible and to carry on with his now _free_ life. She had told him that nothing good could come of communing with this dark… _thing_. She remembered clearly the many times she had seen that bit of advice ignored – her sister had fallen, turned into a withered, perverse parody of her own kind. The Summoner, Istvaan, had erased himself from existence and blighted Runeterra with the being called Fiddlesticks in the same fashion. Now, this entity in Garret's arm… a being that could forge _solid weapons_ from a blood vapour, and command them as though they were extensions of itself… She did not bother entertaining the idea of what may happen should the thing take over. If anything, her advice to the young man had been a form of damage control – hopefully _he_ would actually listen, and veer away from such foolishness.

She stood up from her chair, her armour plates shifting and scraping across one another as she strolled over to the small, yet filled bookshelf in her office. Almost daintily, a gauntleted finger traced the names of the tomes before her as her wings spread out behind her, majestic and graceful as she felt the stiffness residing amidst her feathers recede. Her eyes followed her fingertip, occasionally darting ahead as she sifted through the books in search of the information she needed.

It was at that moment that the boundaries around her office went haywire.

It had been a precaution taken by the Institute itself – several beings of… 'importance' were given wards and boundaries around their abodes and workplaces in the event of a brash or desperate move by a Summoner or Champion. Being the Judicator, her little 'office' was even more secure than usual, to such an extent that she could be warned of a possible visit before the _visitors_ themselves were barely in the hallway in which her little workspot could be found. She paid it little mind, though – whoever it was seemed rather lacking in terms of hostile intent, at least for the moment.

Just as a precaution, thought, the runic markings on her gauntlet lit up, ready to summon her blessed blade at a moment's notice. Absently she cleared her throat, preparing for the standard, monotonous trial that would soon commence. Someone would knock, she would command them to enter, and they would do so shyly and tentatively, speaking warily and slowly and generally being a nuisance and a detriment to her own quick, precise, professional demeanour and outlook. Nonetheless, it was a ritual she was used to. It took much more than beating around a bush to inspire her wrath, after all.

Fortunately, her concerns for trepidation and time-wasting flew right out of the window - at roughly the same time her door was flung open with careless force, and little concern for etiquette and procedure and common _manners_.

Kayle did not dignify the visitor with immediate attention. Despite the runes on her gauntlet glowing brighter, she kept at her activity of scanning her bookshelf, hoping to provide the image that a simple tome was more important than the pig who had just stormed her little office. Her eyes narrowed – there was only person she knew of who had such a blatant disregard for her own authority and title, and if she were correct on this guess – which she almost certainly was – this morning would be anything _but_ pleasant.

_Morgana._

Sighing to herself, she let her hand drop to her side. Kayle's sister was a colossal calamity in the Judicator's own life – a living, breathing reminder of her failure and a walking, talking taunt that teased her with wry grins and blatant disregard whilst hiding behind the fact that she _could not be touched_. They were 'sisters' in concept only – Kayle had severed ties with the Fallen Angel many millennia ago, and the rift between them now was large and barren enough to warrant little care for the fact that Kayle could feel such loathing for one of her own.

And now, said 'Fallen Angel' was likely sitting behind her in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, a spiteful grin on dark lips and pale, thin features. More than likely word of Kayle's 'failure' had reached her younger sister and now, lo and behold, the Fallen Angel had come to taunt her about it – just as she had so many times past.

Kayle steeled her features. She'd allow Morgana no sick pleasure in this little verbal confrontation. She would be the very exemplar of professionalism and dutifulness – just as she had been every time her loathsome sister paid her a visit. After all, they had done this more times than either of them cared to remember. It would be simple – Morgana would state her business or leave, and if she didn't, well… Kayle's sword was always in arm's reach. Much as she didn't want Morgana near her, situations like these were… well beyond the Judicator's control.

Stifling a tired sigh, she turned around to glare at her unwanted visitor – only to freeze, raising an immaculate eyebrow at the sight before her. While her visitor was indeed garbed in the same violet shades her sister favoured, there was no pale skin, no exposed midriff, no spiteful grin or decaying wings. No animosity, either – instead, she bore witness to a lithe frame wreathed in purple. A pale, three fingered hand clutched a worn, bent-out-of-shape brass lamppost, and a dark blue tousle rested atop the hood that covered a unique, six-eyed helm.

"Yo," the Grandmaster at Arms spoke casually.

The barest semblance of a resigned sigh escaped her, a sound so soft only those with the keenest senses could hear – and much to her growing ire, Jax had shifted in such a way that indicated he had heard it quite clearly. At that moment, the headache that had been threatening her for hours now erupted into her skull - one that would spite her for several hours on end, knowing the Grandmaster's personality.

Just once, she allowed herself to sigh.

_Why couldn't it have been Morgana…?_

* * *

A dull _thud_ echoed through the cavernous air of the Institute's library as yet another dust-littered tome was stacked upon a pile of useless texts and nonsensical scrolls. A dejected sigh accompanied the slight scraping sound of leather on wood, a tell-tale signal of yet another tome being dragged forwards and opened. Yet there was little eagerness or drive behind the pale, wiry hand currently paging through the monstrous book – such a drive, such a _hope_, had long since abandoned the poor soul seeking answers. High above, amidst floating arrays of scrolls and tomes that hovered underneath a _perfect_ recreation of a stormy night sky, several candles drifted slowly and leisurely, suspended in an almost nonchalant display of magical prowess (or ease), and bathing the array of tables and chairs below in a bright-yet-dim shower of melancholy lighting.

Fitting, actually, considering the similar state of melancholy now afflicting the library's only current visitor's mind.

With an almost _weary_ sigh, Garret Hillock ran his normal hand through the messy mane of dark hair he had accumulated during his years on the run. Absently the same hand reached down to lazily scratch at his cheek – he had managed to shave himself, but it seemed he never truly could escape the hindrance of stubble. His eyes, equal parts desperate and fatigued, scanned over the latest book before him – a red, leatherbound journal regarding the differing schools of hemomancy and other blood-related sorcery in Valoran. It seemed as though the art itself was limited to Noxian territory – a fact that surprised him little – but it was still useless knowledge. He could gleam no information from the articles about various master hemomancers. They all seemed the same – ambitious young sorcerers who could bend the very blood of their victims and use it to cause all manner of afflictions.

And yet, despite all the different articles, Garret was still left in the dark.

Thirty-three tomes and half as many scrolls, he recalled morosely. _Thirty-three_ – and not _one_ of the books held a single clue regarding the entity that had turned his arm so abhuman, so _abnormal_. The spirit hiding in his arm was _alien_ in its existence; it was a being that could turn blood to _smoke_, and use said smoke to forge a vast array of independent, almost _sentient_ weaponry. The High Councillors were absolutely stumped – even more so after the Judicator, Kayle, had been _told off_ by it, for want of a better word. Try as they may, the Summoners could discern absolutely _nothing_ about the spirit in the days that followed – it remained uncooperative, unresponsive, downright _unaware_; it was though his right arm was just a deadened, mutated limb.

Was he clenching that arm's fist? He couldn't be sure – he had no feeling in the limb, no awareness of how he was moving it or even _if_ he was moving it. He kept it concealed under the faded brown travelling cloak he wore – and did his outright best to ignore the way the chains around the spikes clinked and clanked against each other whenever he would move. The sounds seemed to _taunt_ him in a way – as if trying to remind him that the entity in his arm was _still there_ and _still watching_.

Watching…

That terrified him most of all.

The spirit, or wraith, or soul or monster or _whatever_ it was – it was _aware_. _Sentient_. And according to the Judicator it was _more_ than aware of his own mind and soul. It wanted to speak to him, she said – claimed the spirit would only commune with him now. That… He had few words to describe the sheer _terror_ this revelation spawned in him.

He remembered, back when he first came to the Institute, how the being hard warped his own perception, and _perverted_ his own instincts into that of a killer. He remembered speaking to Soraka one moment, only to stare at a gaping, _weeping_ wound on her neck the next – a wound so easy to inflict it seemed almost laughable. He remembered seeing the hollowed out wounds where the nurse's eyes were, and the way bone pierced and protruded from the flesh of her now shattered neck. He remembered how the Summoners' jugulars dangled against their chests, ripped from their flesh with a simple snatch akin to a serpent's strike…

…and then he remembered how their visages returned to normal with a mere blink.

It had seemed… so frighteningly _easy_. It was thought a part of him, back then, had developed this instinctive _need_ to act on the visions, to lash out and make sure _nobody_ around him could cause him any pain. The deaths would have been quick as well – or so he thought. In the whirlwind of bloodlust and malice he'd experienced then he couldn't be sure what he could recall with accuracy. Torn throats, snapped necks, everything just… _made sense_ at the time. Knowledge he was certain was not his own had flooded him – what angle a neck had to be twisted in, and what amount of pressure you had to twist with, and how gratuitously said pressure should be applied. He could easily pick out soft, tender flesh in their necks, easy for his newly-acquired talons to rip into and lacerate something far too vital to be healed properly in the panic his actions would cause.

For but a brief, _brief_ moment, his mind had gone from that of an outlaw to that of a psychopath, a remorseless killing machine bent on survival in the bloodiest, most brutal manner – all because of one vengeful spirit.

And now, said spirit wanted to speak to _him_.

That concept, that _idea_, was… more than just a little unnerving, in his own honest opinion. Going by what Jax had told him, the spirit seemed downright _crazed_ for violence and bloodshed. Granted, he'd already fought the thing off once before – it had been a painful, almost alien experience, fighting for control of his mind and body. He was truly unsure of how he had managed it – he wasn't a sorcerer, after all, and the sharpest thing he'd held in his life was a small dagger he'd robbed off an assailing bandit – and even that had been in his hand for _seconds_ before finding a new sheathe in said bandit's ribcage. No, Garret Hillock wasn't a fighter, or an assassin, or a mage. He was just a scholar – which made it all the more confusing as to how he had fought off a foreign spirit that had managed to take _immediate_ control.

Once again, the tome before him was closed with a flick of his hand and pushed along to the pile of books and scrolls beside him. While he had been lucky enough to regain himself after the first incident with the spirit, Garret was by _no_ account foolish enough to believe in the certainty of it happening again. He _was_ certain that he would fight every bit as hard as he did while inside that ruin, but _now_, nearly a week after the incident – nearly a week after the spirit's own _awakening_ and rise from dormancy – Garret was willing to wager that the entity was much, _much_ stronger than it was after the blade had shattered; its conversation with the Judicator, and its _rage_ at her words and its _strength _– enough to _shift_ a barrier of pure holy power – proved as much.

So caught up in his quest for answers was he, that he did not even notice he was no longer alone.

In Garret's single-minded focus on obtaining information from the tomes before him, he barely felt the floor beneath him shudder and tremble at the giant being's measured approach. He did not notice the colossal shadow looming over him, or the sound of a solid staff tapping against the floor behind him. It was, in a way, one of Garret's greater flaws; the mind of a scholar was one more fixated on knowledge than anything else – danger included, unfortunately.

Fortunately for him, though, the figure was anything but malicious.

"_You will not find the answers there,_" the giant spoke, with a voice soft, yet almost _ethereal_.

Garret, caught up in his quest for knowledge and answers, had barely realized the giant being had snuck up on him – with a jerk that could only be likened to a spasm born from the most _immediate_ fright, the young man fell to the side, toppling out his chair and sending several books flying back over the table. Several loud _snaps_ and _cracks_ signalled the jutting bronze shards on his demonic arm breaking under his body weight, and yet not even that could prevent him from outright_ scuttling_ away from the speaker in a bid to regain his footing.

Only when he was several feet away from the impostor, did he stop and gaze in the direction of the voice, with his fatigued frame shaking slightly from the adrenaline, and a wariness to match the _weariness_ in his eyes. And yet, he was greeted not by an expression of malice or threat, but rather one of merriment, of _amusement_. It was a soft chuckle, sporting the same powerful yet _hollow_, echoing sound of the voice that had spoken, and with an audible gulp, the young scholar found himself looking _up_ slightly to gaze his visitor in the eye.

Had it not emitted that chuckle, it would have seemed ominous, at first glance; patches of dark fur were neatly flattened amidst panels of lavish gold and ornate crystalwork, decorated here and there with the occasional strip of bandages and the like. An almost solid cowl decorated the being's jackal-like face, with two pointed, canine ears a deep, bright gold complimenting the ethereal blue eyes rather well. The Jackal-Man had a look in his blazing eyes, one of slight intrigue, and his grip on the large, cane-like weapon in his hand – a _was_, the knowledge came to him, unbidden – was almost casual.

"_It was not my intention to frighten,_" the Jackal-Man spoke, nodding towards Garret in a respectful manner. "_My years at the Institute have led to me believing that most are more… aware, of their surroundings. My apologies,_" he said sincerely. "_You must be Garret… The Starchild told me of you._"

It took him but a moment longer to recover – with a heartbeat still erratic, he returned the gesture, bowing as low as his fear and caution would allow him. "I… I am. Pardon the intrusion, sir – I was not made aware of any visiting hours or the like. I… I tried knocking, but the doors just… creaked open, of their own accord," he said softly, taking another seat – this time a few feet away from the titanic Jackal-Man. "I am sorry if I have been trespassing."

The Jackal-Man merely hummed, resting a hand on the backrest of the chair before him – a backrest that, despite being nearly as tall as a young man, merely reached his midsection. "_You have nothing to apologise for, Garret. If anything, it is quite refreshing to see someone read to find answers instead of laying question after curious question onto me,_" he said, almost casually, his azure eyes never once leaving the seated ex-deserter. "_I am Nasus,_" he introduced himself cordially, "_and I am the Curator of this library._"

Garret nodded slowly, processing the information. Slowly but surely, he let his guard down – Soraka had nothing but praise and kind words regarding the Curator, so he reckoned it would be nothing less than an affront to such a being to act as though he were standing in the presence of a common thug. "I… I beg pardon, for my reaction, I didn't exactly… see you coming, sir," he said calmly, reclining back into his seat as the small burst of adrenaline faded away. "I was so caught up in those books I wasn't paying attention."

"_That much was obvious the moment I stepped through the doors,_" the Curator nodded, as casually as his giant, abhuman figure would allow it. "_But I digress; this library is one of the few places where you can afford to act in such a manner. Many Champions of the Institute come here in search of answers or solitude, or even both at times. There are three here as we speak, at that,_" he said, nodding again. His grip on the cane – _was_, the knowledge assailed Garret's mind again – slackened slightly. "_As such, there are… few places in the Institute as safe as here,_" he trailed off, idly gazing at the array of tomes on the table. "_Although… I would assume such is not the kind of safety you seek, is it, Garret?_"

The former deserter stiffened slightly, uncomfortable at the prospect of being read so easily. "I did not… How did you…?"

"_I have lived,_" Nasus interrupted him, calmly and patiently, "_for eons on end. I was… a protector, of your kind, when you were but the spark of an idea on the fabric of creation. I have walked amongst mortals so long I have no recollection of years prior, and in that time I have learned much – about human nature, and human minds, and human hearts…_" He said, nodding once more, before pulling the chair back and ever-gently seating himself. "_You may hide your arm, Garret, but you are nowhere near as skilled as you believe yourself to be when it comes to hiding your heart. Your fear, before me, is as tangible as the clothing you wear, and the wood and paper before us. And yet…_" At these words, the canine giant's eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head. "_The fear you feel is not something you need be ashamed of, Garret. I have heard of what ails you – I have heard of the spirit that assails your mind. You should know: greater men than you have broken at lesser threats._"

Garret, much to his own ire, still found himself doubtful. "I… Make no mistake, Curator, your words are greatly appreciated, but…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "This spirit… I've seen what defines it. I've seen what it lives for, what it _yearns_ for… And what I saw…" he frowned. "I've lived in many places, Curator. From the dark alleys in Bilgewater to the run-down slums of Noxus, I've seen many of the different faces violence wears. But this spirit… I've never seen, or _felt_, anything so_ enamoured _with the idea of bloodshed and combat and, and _death_. For those brief moments, in that ruin… When it took over…" He repressed a shudder as he spoke. "It saw Jax, and the Ranger, Quinn, and… literally, the first thing it thought – the first thing _I_ thought – was how to _kill_ them," he said, his voice dying down to a whisper as he finished. "It already managed to take control once, Curator. I… I dread what would happen if it manages to do so again. What if… What if it finds a way to lock me away, should I speak to it? What if it somehow subjugates me?"

Nasus remained silent for several moments, his azure glowing eyes never leaving the man before him. "_It is true, that such a being would inspire fear, and worry, in one such as yourself,_" he said finally. "_You must, however, take heed not to downplay your own ability, Garret. The Starchild approached me not too long ago – I learned much of you from her, and her amiable opinion of you. She saw inside you, as I do now, and she has seen the exact same things I have,_" he said with a slight smile. "_As dire as you believe your situation to be, Garret, you forget: You have already bested this being once. Despite beak weak, and barely conscious, you fought – and with that simple action, you bested a being capable of… most macabre ability. It would seem yours is a will greater than you believe it to be – and much, much greater than the fiend that cowers in your arm._"

Garret glanced down at the multitude of tomes before him, processing the Curator's words. "I try to tell myself that, Curator. Truly, I do. I simply cannot fathom…" He started, his tone almost _frustrated_, but it died out, as the scholar heaved an exhausted sigh. "When it thought of attacking Jax, and the Ranger… I saw its thoughts. I told myself I could not allow it, _would_ not allow it. When I fought back… I focused on nothing else but their faces. I ignored _everything_ but them – I shook off the spirit's words and questions, closed myself off from its temptations and offers, but now… Now it wants to _speak_, Curator – to _me_. And I fear that in that briefest of time, when I bore witness to its mind… it may have borne witness to mine as well. How… How do I defend my spirit against something that knows me as well as I know myself?"

The Curator seemed to ponder Garret's words – as he sat and stared, and those azure eyes flared with ancient might, Garret could see the ascended hero of Shurima picking his words apart piece by piece. Finally, though, he nodded, almost sternly, and the gold-clad giant rose from his seat. "_It is said,_" he started, his voice several octaves softer, _gentler_ than before, "_that fear and courage are but two sides of the same coin, Garret, and as such, either side has many different engravings. There is more to 'strength' than spellcraft and arms mastery – there is a much deeper strength that governs both – a strength found not in physique and aptitude, nor skill and knowledge. This strength lies in man's very core, Garret – it is the strength of _spirit," he spoke, shifting the old chair back into its previous place. "_I cannot lay claim to know your mind, Garret. But the Starchild has told me of your spirit. She has told me of your struggles, and your strife, and yet… Here you sit,_" He said with finality, as if making a point. "_Am I to believe one who has fought so hard, and so long, fears one loathsome spirit?_"

Garret remained silent once more, a grim mask of contemplation on his face. On one hand, the Curator had confirmed that his fear posed a great and monumental obstacle in his path – and he could barely disagree; in a way, Garret Hillock was a coward by nature, fitting many different descriptions of the word. On the other hand, though, the Curator had spoken words that had reinforced his will to keep the spirit at bay, regardless of his own fear and insecurity. Nasus had spoken of _spirit_, the _one_ thing that had kept him going through pain and agony and loss over thirteen long years, and the _one_ thing of his that had not broken yet. Yes, it seemed… It seemed as though his courage and his fear would go hand-in-hand. "What… If I might ask, Curator… What do you believe?"

The Curator of the Sands, mighty ascended hero of the desert of Shurima, merely uttered a low, amused hum before replying. "_I believe,_" he spoke, with a voice almost _knowing_, "_that despite the hesitation that remains… You have already found your answer. Now, Garret… Whatever happens now rests entirely in your hands,_" he said, with a single, courteous nod as he turned around and made his way back into the depths of the Institute's great library. Abruptly, though, the gold-clad giant halted, and turned to face the scholar one last time. "_I will, however, leave you with this parting thought,_" he said kindly. "_While it is true that the spirit in your arm might be stronger than it was in the ruin, just keep in mind, Garret: So are you._"

And with those words, the jackal-faced hero of Shurima disappeared into the shadows cast by the towering bookcases, likely off to go aid other visitors in their search… regardless of whether what they sought could be found in the library at all.

Garret sat for a while, contemplating what he had said, and what he had _heard_. Gently, he brushed the dark traveling cloak aside and, with practiced caution, raised the twisted red shape of his arm up. Golden chains clinked and clanked as the limb came into view, the dim lighting of the floating candles playing off blackish-crimson skin and seemingly wrapping around the layered links. For the first time, Garret _examined_ his arm, gazed at it with more than simple apprehensive fear and loathing. It looked no different than it did when he had first woken up – the steely shards still protruded from the back of his fore-and-upper arms and the four fingered hand hovered idly in the air. Only _now_ did the former deserter notice that the hand's ring finger – or what _could_ pass as a ring finger – seemed slightly thicker than the other three digits. Idly he brought his other hand – his _human_ hand – around and carefully pressed his fingers to the darkened flesh of the mutated limb.

_Warm._

The limb was unusually warm – it wasn't the kind you'd normally find in such a limb either. It was a _flaring_ heat, a pulsating wave that travelled up and down the twisted musculature, dancing between the ends of the shards embedded into it. It was an _alien_ feeling, something he wasn't quite sure he knew how to explain – but it mattered little. Somehow, despite feeling apprehensive and cautious, he had already decided what needed to be done. In a way, he'd known all along – the Curator's good-hearted reassurance merely anchored that decision, and moulded it into an _action_.

With a soft huff, Garret stood, pushing the chair he had been sitting on back into its original place. With a resolute expression he began scooping the various books and tomes before him, intent on returning them to their places in the various shelves and chests he took them from. He wasn't foolish enough to believe this little… 'meeting' would be a short affair. There were preparations to be made, after all – Summoners to rally, precautions to take, and all that. Absentmindedly he wondered if the Judicator would be present at all, but going by the rather… _scathing_ look Councillor Kolminye had on her face after his judgement, he highly doubted it.

Thus, with a final, determined sigh, Garret disappeared into the dark shadows of the library's depths.

* * *

"So, let me get this straight: you fucked up royally?"

Once more, the Judicator effortlessly repressed an almost _tortured_ sigh. "No, Jax," she said in a controlled manner, maintaining the same crisp air of professionalism and stoicism she was known for during such situations. "While the situation did indeed take a rather detrimental turn, I am entirely certain that my discussion with the spirit would have ended the same way regardless of what I said or how I acted." Her mask wasn't fraying at all. Really, it wasn't.

"That's not what Ol' Vess tells me," Jax said with an almost melancholic shrug as he reclined back into his seat and propped his feet up on Kayle's desk, completely ignoring the slight glare the angelic woman shot him in response. "Normally when someone sets out to do something they're ordered to do," he said with a raised finger, as though _lecturing _her – the audacity! – about her actions, "and end up achieving the exact opposite effect… Yeah, that's called 'fucking up royally' – not 'a rather detrimental turn'."

Kayle didn't dignify Jax's poor imitation of her voice with a response, nor did she rise to his attempts to anger her. This was Jax, after all – his skill with weaponry was matched only by the amount of respect he refused to give, to _anyone_ or _anything_. Chiding him on that matter would have as much effect as Morgana's taunts would have on _her_, Kayle thought idly. Instead she merely crossed her arms and met his gaze. "Whatever your opinion on the events that occurred, it matters little now. I've told you what you wanted to hear-"

"And depressed the hell out of me at that," Jax interrupted.

"- and cannot see how further argument or debate will contribute to a solution to Garret's dilemma," she continued, unperturbed by Jax's interruption. "What happens now is between Garret and the spirit in his arm-"

"No thanks to you," Jax interrupted again.

"- and is something only he can decide," She continued, once more ignoring the interruption. "Although, pray tell, Grandmaster: Why so curious about this matter?" She inquired. "The only other people you interact with in such a… _positive_ manner are Gragas and High Councillor Kolminye, and your… 'friendships' with both parties started with rather heated fights." It was true – many champions had referred to Jax as a type of hermit, a skilled yet reclusive person who only ever interacted with the outside world when necessary (or thirsty, or just spoiling for a good fight). He had few allies, fewer _friends_ and surprisingly, even _fewer_ enemies – a fact that was rather shocking, given the Grandmaster's personality. And yet, here he stood, inquiring about the health and mental state of a person he had known hardly a week – and the two of them hadn't even come to blows yet.

"Well considering the fact that the bitch in his arm tried to, y'know, _kill_ me and all that," Jax snipped, shrugging as if to emphasize the sarcasm, "I'd say I have a right to know, don't I? 'Sides, Garret's chilled. None of that 'allegiance' bullshit holding him down – it makes him quite good company when the grog starts flowing." Another shrug. "He's a smart one, very world-aware and savvy. True I haven't bashed him in the face with my lamppost yet, but hey – the way he is, I don't think that'll be necessary. It's good to have a buddy I don't have to hospitalize first. Very… _unique_ experience."

Kayle was certain most other champions of the Institute would, at that point, have described her face as 'deadpan'. Quickly, though, she blinked the cynicism and exasperation from her eyes before the Grandmaster could notice it, and went back to arranging the various papers on her desk. "If anything, that is something I am quite grateful for. It's hard enough dealing with your rampant disregard for the Institute's rules and other champions' well-being. Fiora Laurent is still trying to press charges against you for damaging her property and grievously injuring her-"

"Why are you talking about her like she's actually a person?" Jax interrupted her _again_.

"-so it comes as no small consolation that you have no intent to further fuel the fires surrounding Garret's presence and condition," she once more pressed on, shuffling a few more papers together. "Although had you been anyone else, Grandmaster, and I would have thought your sudden interest in a complete stranger's well-being to be… rather suspicious."

"Say what?" Jax tilted his head slightly. "I've dragged him to the bar several times now, woman – I doubt he qualifies as a stranger. Hell, I know more about him than you do now, and _I_ wasn't even there for his Judgement."

"You weren't present for anyone's Judgement," the Judicator said rather listlessly. "Not even your own."

"Jealous?" the Grandmaster taunted.

"Are we finished here?" Kayle snapped, her frustration with the current situation finally shining through.

"Almost," the Grandmaster shrugged, standing up and stretching, making a massive show of the gesture and purposefully drawing it out, as only he would. "I've got something for your little case file," he said smugly, meeting her gaze again, "regarding that Laurent bitch. Now I don't know what kind of charges she's pressing, and, to be honest I don't really give a fuck. However I do like my money – a lot – and, well, I'm not willing to fork out gold to refurnish Princess Petulant's little abode," he said, procuring a small, folded paper from the inside of his dark attire. "See, that little spat we had in Demacia? The one that apparently wrecked her training room and kitchen? Yeah," he said, setting the paper down on Kayle's desk, "that was a duel, issued by the Brat Bitch herself, to be held inside her private training room. This here? This is my list of witnesses," he said, smugness literally dripping off every syllable that left his mouth. "Should get her off your back, huh?"

For but a moment, Kayle eyed the folded piece of paper. Last time Jax had tried to 'contribute' anything to her case files it had been nothing but a crudely-drawn image of him flipping her the bird. This time, however… Even in the dim lighting, her keen eyesight could see the indentations in the paper forming names, addresses and even places of employ. With a careful gesture she daintily took the paper, folding it open and giving the names a once over. "This… will do just that," she admitted, more to herself than anyone. It _was_ true that Fiora Laurent's incessant attempts at having Jax 'dealt with' were getting out of hand, but this… If the damage to her property was due to her own handiwork, _with_ her knowledge, then it might as well 'Case Closed'. "…My thanks, Grandmaster," Kayle nodded to herself.

"Don't mention it," Jax said with a shrug. "Literally, don't. If _it_ comes at me again I might just have to break something," he said flippantly, turning around to stroll to the door. He paused halfway there, though, idly resting his trusty lamppost on his shoulder as he turned to gaze back at her. "Oh, by the way," he said, just as casually as he had been all meeting long. "You might get called on again when Garret decides to go through with that whole 'spiritual meeting' thing."

"'_When_'?" Kayle asked, perturbed. "He has confirmed his willingness, then?"

"Nope," Jax said again, casual as can be. "But let's just say I've learned a bit about the kid. What can I say? Booze builds bonds. Anyhow, _if_ you're called again," his tone changed slightly – a hint of seriousness crept into his voice, "then I'd watch the attitude if I were you. Feel free to hate the spirit – I know _I_ do – but don't do it verbally. Garret's already scared shitless enough – he doesn't need you to make things worse. Well, worse than you've already made them," he said with yet another shrug. "Just a suggestion, though. Have a nice day, Kayle."

And with those words, and before the Judicator could even express her outrage at being _scolded_ – by _Jax_ of all people – the Grandmaster had vanished through the doorway, not even bothering to close it behind him. Even her boundaries didn't respond to his departure – Jax had just _disappeared_, it seemed, and on _such_ a childish note it beggared belief. Had she not known better she'd have decried the Grandmaster, and branded him a lowly coward. Knowing better, however, the Judicator decided to let the matter rest – for the moment, at least. She had _no_ doubt in her intention of… _addressing_ Jax on his tactless manner and brash attitude in the future. Arrogance was one thing – that level of disrespect was_ entirely_ another.

Nonetheless, a simple case of wanton disrespect was not cause for her to abandon her duties just yet. There were cases to be ordered, verdicts to be given, and several other staggeringly mundane things the Judicator had to get done before she had the luxury of waltzing about the Institute doling out lectures and punishments. Idly, she pulled a small dossier before her and started thumbing through the pages, a fountain pen clutched tightly between her gauntleted fingers.

She'd been at her business for a few moments when her boundaries went off again. She'd left her door open, to signify she wasn't exactly busy with _crucial_ documents or evidence, and truth be told the entire debate-slash-meeting with Jax had left her more than a bit frustrated and agitated, despite her face not showing it. It was for this exact reason that she didn't pay much mind to her boundaries telling her that someone was leisurely strolling towards her office without a care in the world.

In her own opinion nobody could come close to increasing the frustration she felt now.

"It's open," she noted aloud absentmindedly when she saw the shadow at her door. She was in the middle of adding the names the Grandmaster had given her to the case file Fiora Laurent had tried repeatedly to set into action. "I will be with you momentarily," she said, as the sound of a pen's tip on paper signalled her finishing the third-to-last name. She shadow looming over her desk seemed to hover there for a bit before she heard one of the chairs before her desk being dragged out. Not a moment later the shadow shrunk, and she heard oak legs straining slightly under weight. With but the slightest hint of a nod she proceeded to finish the last two names, and upon finishing, she moved to place her pen down on her table, and looked up. "Now, how can I help…"

She trailed off then, upon seeing her visitor.

If there was ever something like a 'sick' grin, she was certain she was looking at it now. Dark hair framed a silver circlet and sickly pale skin, and even darker lips curled up into an almost sinister smile, and her blank eyes, encircled by patches of shadowy, near-decaying skin, twinkled with slight amusement.

Behind her, two mangled wings batted twice.

"Sister," the Fallen Angel greeted, in a sickly sweet yet _envenomed_ voice.

A single loud _crack_ signalled Kayle's pen cracking in her grip, confirming that, yes, her day _was_ about to get much worse…

* * *

It had been a few hours since Jax had met with the Judicator when he leisurely strolled into the 'finest' bar near the Institute. Of course, the 'finest' part was contributed solely by the fact that several of the League's… less luxurious champions frequented it, the first of which had been Jax himself. Now, make no mistake, The Champ was not a person ignorant of luxury – not at all. It was merely that The Champ, in his own _humble_ opinion, described himself as a man whose idea of 'luxury' was a lot less flamboyant, aristocratic and elitist.

Or at least, so he claimed.

And anyone who said otherwise often ended up arguing with the business end of his lamppost.

In truth, the 'finest bar' in question was little more than a rinky-dink, working-class bar located about half a mile outside the Institute's main gate. It had not the luxury of Demacia's taverns or the modernized interior of Piltover's pubs, but in the same vein it lacked the run-down appearance of Zaun's drinking spots or the general feeling of malice and life-threatening danger you'd find in almost every bar in Noxus. No, the 'finest bar' in question was decidedly average – and Jax, well, he found that to be quite homely.

And that, all things considered, made it perfect.

Now, The Champ had been frequenting this bar for quite a while – as such, he'd pretty much become accustomed to the way things seemed and worked. There had been nothing that could surprise the Grandmaster where 'his' favourite bar was concerned – he had happy hours, early opening times, League match spectating sessions and about ninety-nine percent of the bar's regulars all memorised by memory. So when the Grandmaster at Arms had strolled into 'his' bar only to see a sight he'd _never_ seen before, he had reason to be just a tad shocked.

Seeing Garret Hillock sitting at the bar, calmly sipping at a mug of grog wasn't an unusual sight per say. After all, the Grandmaster had made a point to drag the ex-convict there every night since the man had been let out of the infirmary – much to Soraka's (promptly ignored) ire and Vessaria Kolminye's (promptly ignored) exasperation. No, what was strange is the fact that Garret was actually here _before_ Jax – and that his mutated, crimson arm was uncovered for the world to see – hell, it's twisted fingers were even gripping the mug he was drinking from!

"Well, I'll be fucked," Jax said, strolling forwards and ignoring all the greetings, cheers and the occasional flirty comment thrown his way. As he reached the counter he gave Garret a hearty clap on the shoulder as he sat down. "This is new," he said, signalling for his usual order – an order the bartender complied to with a smile.

"Jax," Garret greeted with a smile and a nod. "Well, I figured for once I would pay heed to superstition. Frankly I have no idea what I'm hoping to find at the bottom of this mug, but… maybe it will become clear with a few more servings."

"Hah! That's the spirit," the Grandmaster said jovially, turning his gaze back on the bar's main area. "What superstition, though? If you're looking for something fancy like the 'meaning of life', I'll warn ya: you're gonna get right shitfaced before you find it. And even then, with tomorrow's hangover you won't remember jack."

Garret, for the first time since coming to the Institute, uttered a genuine laugh – albeit a short one. "No, I… I am not looking for anything so spectacular. A gain in courage, perhaps, or a loss of inhibition. Maybe both. Who knows?"

"'_In wine lies truth',_ eh?" Jax guessed, swivelling around on his stool. "Well, share! What truth have you found so far?"

"That spur-of-the moment decisions make a fool of me?" Garret guessed, with that slightly skew grin the Grandmaster had seen on his face from time to time. "Or at least, that is what I feel now that the whole star-struck mindset has left me."

"Eh, those kinds of choice make us all look like asses. Although you've got me curious, bud: Who managed to dazzle you so much?" Jax chuckled. "Was it that nurse who looked after you so nicely while you were bedridden?" He leered. "I can hook you up, y'know. If you're up for the whole 'dating a ninja' thing."

"Much as I apprecia-Wait, what?" Garret interrupted himself, his expression going from reluctant and exasperated to what Jax classed as a typical 'What the fuck'-face in an instant. "You mean that, er… that… the slightly indecent one?" He asked, earning a guffaw from Jax for his under-exaggeration. "She's a _ninja_?"

"One o' the best," Jax confirmed with a nod and a shrug. "She's part of the Institute's very own three-man gang, both on and off the Fields of Justice. Got a stick as long as my lamppost up her ass, though. Stoic, emotionless, proper, cold, despite the way she dresses for hospital duty. Nice bod, though. Makes up for her personality – or lack thereof. That, and the fact that she's a pretty remorseless killer."

"I…" Garret started, before sighing slightly, that same crooked grin on his face. "Well as far as radical topic swings go, this is one of the more extreme examples. From drinking motivation to a ninja's allure… I get the feeling spending time here won't be a waste," he said, taking another sip from his mug. "Although in response to your earlier question, I can confirm the motivation behind my rash, life-changing decision was not at all romantic. Rather some… profoundly wise words, that managed to motivate me."

"'Profoundly wise words', eh," Jax mirrored, cocking his head as though deep in thought. "Soraka, then? You an' her are hitting it off quite well, seriously speaking. And she's just _full_ of profoundly wise words. And profoundly _annoying_ lectures if you don't mind me saying."

Garret uttered a short laugh again, an almost alien sound, coming from him. "Isn't _anyone_ who lectures you profoundly annoying, Jax?" He asked rhetorically, grinning once more when The Champ merely shrugged at the observation. "No, no. I was… I visited the library this morning. I was hoping to find answers or some form of identification, really – _anything_ that could at least identify this… _thing_ that's hiding in my arm. I wanted answers, reassurance, _anything_, really. Well, I found reassurance, all right. Courage, as well. Although from a highly unlikely source."

"You met Nasus, then?" Jax chuckled. "I shoulda clicked immediately. Ol' Muttface is full of those randy-dandy philosophical revelations and stuff. So what did he tell you," he asked, "and what did what he told you make you do?"

Garret blinked, processing the question for a fraction of a moment before offering a slightly awkward smile. "Well, some words were exchanged, some observations were made, and…" He trailed off, seemingly pondering something. "Well, the end justifies the means, I reckon. I… A few hours ago, I spoke to High Councillor Kolminye. Later tonight, I… I'm going to go through with the ritual that will put me in contact with the spirit."

_Gragas, you owe me money,_ Jax thought, slightly grateful his metal mask hid his shit-eating grin. "That's the spirit, bud," he said in a motivating manner. "Quicker you kick that bitch to the curb, the better. How's it gonna go down? You know yet?"

"If you mean why they're doing it in the middle of the night, I have no idea," Garret said, his shoulders drooping slightly. "Although I _did_ sleep in a bit, so that should mitigate it somewhat. It's taking place in a different chamber too – someplace underground, if I'm not mistaken. The High Councillor will send someone to escort me there. Apparently the Summoners performing the ritual will be… slightly more professional, than the ones who handled my Judgement."

"I'd expect that," Jax conceded. "They ain't trying to figure out jack this time – now they're gonna be maintaining the link between you two, tryin' to make sure that bitch doesn't try to kill you."

"Are you trying to reassure me?" Garret asked worriedly. "Because… Well, I don't mean to sound ungrateful but it's failing slightly…"

"Relax, kiddo," Jax chuckled. "Honestly? I don't think it'll go that far. I paid the Judicator a little visit earlier, got her to tell me _exactly_ what your little tenant told her. I still think the bitch is murderous as all hell, and full of shit to boot, but I don't think she'll go as far as to try and kill you."

"Why is that?" Garret asked, emptying his mug with a final gulp and signalling a refill. "I mean, it tried to kill you, and Lady Quinn as well. I am but a scholar – and a cowardly one at that. If it is brave enough to try and attack _you_ of all people, in a battered up, malnourished body at that, why would it spare me?"

"I'unno," Jax shrugged. "Going by what the 'naughty little angel' said, your parasite seemed mighty pissed at the insinuation that she tried to kill you. Kayle claims it was all an act, but eh. That woman… She's not exactly open to different outcomes. Very black-and-white, that one."

"Hmm." Garret seemed to be deep in thought. "It's something to ponder," he admitted finally, "and frankly, something I would rather _not_ ponder – at least, until I can ascertain the spirit's intentions. Whether it speaks the truth or blatant lies, if I decide it's a threat I'll have the Summoners lock it away permanently… and I highly doubt the spirit would take kindly to that idea."

"Didn't take kindly to giving up your body either," Jax reminded him. "We all saw what happened then. True, you call yourself a coward, buddy, but with the way you fought that bitch back, you've got _some_ badass cred to your name," he said with a chuckle. "When's the ritual?"

"About three hours from now," came the reply. Garret had emptied half of his mug by now. "I will admit, I felt rather powerful after speaking to the Curator, but now… Now, with the ritual looming on the horizon, reality is starting to catch up. I'll still face this challenge head-on, but… the heart's starting to beat just a _bit_ faster, and the hollow pit in my stomach isn't growing any smaller."

"You clearly haven't had enough grog, then," Jax chirped and chuckled. "If that's why you came here, though, you're in the right place. You just need the right _stuff_," he said, motioning to the bartender. "Bring us your best stuff. The stronger, the better. And ice – _lots_ of ice." The bartender, a small, balding man with an unkempt moustache, smiled cheerfully and trotted into the storeroom. "The doses are gonna be smaller," Jax admitted, "but it'll be worth it. Another half an hour and you'll be riding lightning, bud."

"It's not _too_ strong, I hope?" Garret asked. "I mean, not to sound ungrateful and all but I highly doubt confronting a murder-obsessed spirit in an inebriated state is a wise idea."

"Confronting it when you're half-dead ain't so bright either," Jax shrugged. "You turned out fine nonetheless, no?"

For but a moment, Garret sat, jaw agape. A moment later it snapped shut, and formed his trademarked crooked grin. Be it inebriation or nonchalance, or the off chance that the events of the ruin had failed to rule him, Garret seemed to take little offense from the words. Instead, he merely uttered a short chuckle, just as the bartender came out of the store carrying something _decidedly_ not groggy at all. "Touché," he nodded to himself. "Touché. Who knows? Maybe it even makes the meeting easier."

"Aye!" Jax agreed as the high-quality liquor flowed into the glasses in small doses, their mass amplified by the ice. "You're even sharper with your tongue when you're drunk anyhow, so it's win-win. Drink up, I say. You're meeting up with Ol' Vess too, and she's a right bitch when she's tired. You're gonna need the boost," he said.

Garret, though, merely remained silent, smiling slightly. He sat idly for a moment, Jax noticed, swishing the amber alcohol around in the small glass he had been served. His eyes twinkled slightly, even in the dim lighting you'd usually find in a bar. The man seemed deep in reminiscence, somehow. After a moment, he noticed Jax's curious stare, and righted himself with a slight cough. "Pardon. I, uhm… Suffice it to say it's easy to lose yourself in your memories. It has been… some time, since I've been able to experience this… this kind of _peace_. An ironic thing to say, I know, considering what will happen soon, but…"

"Oy, no need to explain," Jax nodded sagely, turning his gaze back on the various patrons frequenting the metaphorical 'watering hole'. "And no need to worry, either. You'll be having a lot more of this peace while you're here. Make no mistake about that." With a final nod, he turned back to the bar, and scooped up the small glass of alcohol he'd been served. "So what are we drinking to, bud? Prosperity? Peace?" he asked. "Women? Eh?"

Garret laughed at the suggestion, that same alien sound he'd uttered a few times already. "I was inclined to say 'all of the above'," he digressed, "until you had to go and be… well, you. I suppose I should be used to it by now, though," he said in an almost conceding manner. He turned his gaze back on his glass. "I do not normally drink to things. However, if I must… I will drink to… a new beginning, hopefully."

"I heard that," Jax nodded, "and hell if it's not something worth drinking to, eh? To a new beginning, bud."

And with those words, they raised their glasses, and the amber-hued liquid held in them disappeared down their throats.

* * *

Suffice it to say he had no idea what time it was when the elderly Summoner knocked on his door. The moon was already high, hiding amidst shadowed clouds, like a priceless jewel buried away beneath the rubble; a jewel man was only allowed to catch the most fleeting glimpses of. As things stood, Garret had to keep the Summoner waiting a bit. The white shirt he had been wearing had been tossed aside in the bathroom of the small abode the Institute offered him, traded for a navy-coloured one that smelled of lavender salts and new fabric, and decidedly _not_ of expensive alcohol.

He'd been chewing on mint leaves ever since he'd left the bar. Jax had been correct when he said the whiskey would make him 'ride lightning' and all that, but the smell… Ye _gods_, the smell…

"You seem worried," the elderly Summoner intoned as they strolled through darkened halls. "And for once I dare say I don't need a mental link to determine that, young man – only a sense of smell."

"Is it… Is it that obvious, sir?" Garret grinned awkwardly. He suddenly missed his travelling cloak. At least _that_ was a piece of apparel he could wrap around himself and imagine himself disappearing into. "Er, I do so hate to disrespect, sir. The High Councillor is a woman of great pedigree, I'm assuming – I would think it would be nothing short of unacceptable to appear before her when I smell of alcohol and look like a thug."

The Summoner, confusingly, merely chuckled at the observation. "Ah, it's rare to see someone so courteous in this place. Most of our newer Champions eschew that approach entirely – especially that manic little girl, Jinx. Honestly," he shook his head. "A pity there's a good chance you might be leaving us soon – you'd have been a welcome breath of fresh air in the Institute."

"Loath as I am to disappoint, sir," Garret nodded, somewhat awkwardly, "I… I am not a fighter. I've stolen, yes, and lied and misled at times, but I… my first instinct is always to flee, sir. I have very, very little to contribute to this place."

"That is not what the Starchild believes, young man," the Summoner intoned with a wry smile. "Councillor Kolminye believes a likewise story. You seem to forget our great Institute houses _more_ than just fighters, mages and Summoners, Mister Hillock. Believe it or not, should you choose to stay, we have many, many uses for a man of your talents – _especially_ if the notes you had on your person when you were brought in is any indication."

"I… I do not understand, sir," Garret said, a perplexed expression on his face. "I am but a scholar. Granted, I have… a fair bit of knowledge when it comes to ancient languages and cultural analyses, but I fail to see how I can be of any assistance _there_ when you have beings like Curator in your service."

"You mistake wisdom for intellect, Mister Hillock," the Summoner chortled. "Nasus may be ancient, and an incredible source of knowledge on the past of Shurima and the hearts and souls of the human being, but he is not omniscient – and certainly not as well-versed in other subjects as some believe him to be." At these words he turned to look at Garret, a slight glint in his old, wizened eyes. "Your notes, however… They prove that your little hobby, your _passion_, might be worth more than a simple passing gaze from the Institute."

Any response Garret could have formed – be it confused, or bashful, or even hopeful – was cut short when they reached their destination, rather suddenly at that. It was as though the door just… _appeared_ in the walls next to them, the dark oak contrasting rather nicely against the clinical white hue of the walls. At first he was perplexed he had not noticed the door earlier – such a glaring spot of dark-on-light colouring should have stood out like a sore thumb. He turned a quizzical gaze towards the elderly Summoner, and the old man – as though having practiced the response for ages – merely shrugged and offered a wry grin and an offhanded muttering of "Magic?" before turning back to face the oaken door.

"You will notice," he said, a slight undertone of mirth in his voice, "that this is not our… 'esteemed' Reflection Chamber. No, Garret, I will be entirely honest with you – this room is much more secure, and much more secluded."

"As it should be," Garret agreed, though try as he may he couldn't keep that damn quiver out of his voice. "Given what I saw in that ruin, sir, I would have insisted on a secure location regardless."

"Ah yes, the pseudo-possession," the Summoner nodded. "A fine achievement on your part, driving the ghost back. Nonetheless, I assure you, Garret: you'll find nothing short of _absolute_ security when you pass through those doors. We have dealt with geists and spirits far more powerful than the one manifesting in your arm – we have specialists on hand to control the ebb and flow of your connected psyches, and a few more that can safely sever the connection should sufficient threat arise," he said complacently. "The Institute of War _is_ highly intrigued by the being in your arm, Mister Hillock – but your safety and wellbeing remains our first and most important priority."

"I… am grateful, sir," Garret said with a self-reassuring nod of his own. "Heh. A few years ago I would have laughed at the concept of… _this_ all happening."

"Fate has a habit of dealing rather _interesting_ cards to those who least expect it," the Summoner hummed in agreement. "And for once I am not referring to the Champion. Nonetheless," he said, shaking his head as the elderly were wont to do when they lost track. "I am afraid this is as far as I can go with you, Mister Hillock," the Summoner said, stroking the long gray beard that hung out from under the muted purple robes. "Independent as you may be, the matter that will go down behind these doors are… not quite relating to the Fields of Justice, is it?" He said with a wry smile as he turned to leave. "I wish you the best of luck, Mister Hillock," he bade farewell as he shuffled towards the shadows. "May you reach a conclusion you are content with."

Garret found himself at a loss for words. It wasn't a matter of being overly choked up on emotions, or perplexed to point of wordlessness. It was simply that somehow, some way, he couldn't think of anything to say to the wizened Summoner in response apart from a mumbled "Thank you" and another of his crooked smiles. The old man had ended their little conversation in such a way that made the finality of it absolute – the type of conversation you could only find when an elder passed advice down to a younger person. Idly, Garret watched as the Summoner's robes disappeared, blending seamlessly into the darkness of the semi-lit hallway. It had been… a fulfilling conversation, in all honesty. It had successfully managed to pull his mind away from the ominous occurrence it would soon bear witness to.

Stalling, however, would mean very little. Shaking any stray thoughts from his mind, he reached out, and gripped the glistening doorknob before him.

_Well,_ he thought, _now or never_.

* * *

The hallway he had entered after stepping past the threshold was long and rather dark – but he placated himself in a way he had grown accustomed to over the years, assuring himself that this was just another dark corridor, just like any other he encountered during his years as a fugitive. This one was even less of a bother – it lacked the biting cold of the Freljord or the scorching heat of Shurima, and the craftsmanship behind it – at least, that which he could see – painted a very different picture from what he was used to.

Step by cautious step, Garret kept his mind busy as he strode towards the ever-growing 'light at the end of the corridor'. The Institute, it seemed, rather adored their clichés. Not that it was a bad thing – if anything it was a welcome change of pace from the usual winding, rocky pathways he found whenever he'd go traipsing around some ruin in search of the next of hieroglyphs he could try and translate.

Finally, though, he was within stepping distance of the doorway leading to the ritual area. He paused a moment, revelling at the feeling of the darkness obscuring his features – and then he recalled it was highly likely that these Summoners knew he was there already. So with a final deep breath, he closed his eyes and stepped into the light.

It was… much different from the Reflection Chamber.

It lacked the intricate detail of the murals etched into the walls, instead opting for a bleak, dark and gravelly texture, more than likely one of the more resilient types of stone. At first he would have ventured a guess and settled on granite, only the walls were naturally much darker than the stone in question. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, though. He tended to do that a lot – whenever stress or anxiety kicked in he put his powers of observation to use, trying to hone it and focus on something other than what was causing him pressure. This, of course, was not a time for such things.

"You are the first," he heard High Councillor Kolminye's voice drift from the shadows, "to find one of these rooms so fascinating, Garret. If I hadn't known any better I'd say it seemed as though you _like_ it here."

"Well, I… I have spent nights in worse places," Garret admitted with a shrug. "Apologies for letting my mind wander, it is a… Well, old habits die hard, and the oldest ones are damn near immortal," he conceded, folding his hands behind his back. He noticed something in the middle of the room – a sort of half-chair, half-bed _thing_ carved of marble – what was it with this place and their fancy marble furniture? – with several runic sigils and glyphs carved into its surface. "And I have slept on much worse textures too, I must admit."

He heard the High Councillor hum amusedly then, and alongside the sounds echoing off the walls, she stepped forth from the shadows. "It is only temporary, Garret," she said, in a half placating manner. "It's actually much more bearable than it looks. Some of the runes we've carved onto it are there to… _lessen_ the discomfort of such a hard surface."

"I… I assume this is where the bulk of my little meeting with my tenant will take place?" Garret ventured, eyeing the deck-chair like surface warily. "I do not have to strip, do I? That looks… rather chilly."

The High Councillor merely uttered a short laugh, raising a hand. "Oh no, it is nothing so complex. You will be… _dormant_ during the process, in any case. Your body will be restrained by some of the Summoners I've brought here –" and as if on cue, several Summoners clad in dark robes and fabric masks stepped forth from the darkness as well – "and your mind will be monitored for any… irregular activity. We will not know for certain what transpires between you and your visitor, Garret, but we will know _immediately_ if something goes awry. All we ask is complete honesty on your part after the meeting, Garret. Understand, this spirit has a very unique set of talents – a very _dangerous_ set of talents. If there is even the slightest chance it may act to your detriment in the future, well… a permanent solution will have to be sought."

"I understand completely, High Councillor," Garret nodded, answering without hesitation. He had spent all day building himself up for this, after all. The coward in him still appealed to the rationalist in him, and the tag-team duo implored him to say "To hell with it" and have the spirit suppressed permanently, no questions or fuss necessary. But he was not the only one with a stake in this – the Institute of War wanted to know more about this being, this _entity_ who could bend blood to its will, and weaponise it. They offered him safety, absolution, food and shelter, and even tended to his wounds – to have the spirit locked away now, without a second thought… it would be akin to spitting in their faces.

And Garret refused to be that kind of person.

"_While it is true that the spirit in your arm might be stronger than it was in the ruin, just keep in mind, Garret: So are you._"

The Curator's words stuck with him, in some weird, twisted way. Maybe the alcohol amplified the effects they had on him, or maybe – for once in his life – he was actually taking the courageous route instead of the cowardly one. He didn't ponder what brought it on – here, now, as he stood before the Summoners and the altar that would put him in contact with the spirit that had caused him so much fear, that _still_ caused him so much fear… Be it foolishness or bravery, running away was the last thing on his mind.

Idly, he glanced down at his exposed mutated arm. "I assume," he guessed aloud, "that the chain inhibiting the spirit will be removed?"

"Indeed," the High Councillor responded. "We need as little external factors mitigating your interaction with the spirit as possible. The chain is one of those factors – we suspect it is the reason why the being's voice sounded so broken and horrid when it spoke to the Judicator. My specialists tell me that anything that can distort the spirit in the eyes of the visitor… may just distort the visitor in the eyes of the spirit. That is a risk we cannot take. We need all channels between the two of you clear. Only then can we learn as much as possible about it."

As if rising to some form of unspoken challenge, Garret's arm pulsed. The searing red light lit up underneath the dark skin, highlighting the musculature beneath. It was a gesture that caught the attention of everyone in the room, an affirmation of presence despite the inhibition – and the first such signal since Garret's time in the Reflection Chamber six days prior. "Well, someone seems rather happy with the current state of affairs," the High Councillor noted dryly. "Shall we begin, Garret? Or are there some more measures you wish to see put in place?"

"None, m'lady," Garret nodded resolutely. "I have… the utmost trust in your abilities." He strolled forwards, nodding courteously to the two Summoners who shifted to the side to allow him access to the altar. They returned the gesture, albeit stiffly and stoically, but it was a good sign nonetheless – at least in Garret's eyes. He refused to idle or pause or hesitate when he stopped before the altar – he shut any negative thoughts out of his mind, as well as he could, and swivelled on his heel before sitting down on the predictably cold marble surface. He took a deep breath, just one, before shifting himself back and laying down on the runic display.

Two Summoners surged forward, gently easing his arm out into an extended position, before their gloved fingers deftly and professionally went to work on the suppression chains. Had the golden links not clinked and clanked against each other and sent soundwaves echoing off the walls, Garret was certain the silence would have been deafening. The worst part was the fact that the arm itself was completely _dead_ – he'd practiced its dexterity a bit today but he felt _nothing_. He barely even knew whether the chain was off or not – and, despite chiding himself about it, he opted not to look and find out.

Then it happened.

He couldn't rightly phrase it. All his life he had studied linguistics and prose and not a single word could describe the sudden feeling of _warmth_ that flooded his mind. It was somewhat pleasant, he grudgingly admitted – it wasn't the searing kind of heat like a knife wound or a mind-affecting spell. It was… almost comforting, in a way. He frowned slightly. How… utterly unlike the spirit of death and ruin he'd suspected it to be. It could always have been part of an elaborate scheme, he reasoned – something to get him to lower his guard. In a way, it was futile – these Summoners seemed professional. The being could fool him, maybe, but not these elite mages.

"Are you ready, Garret?" He heard the High Councillor ask. Hesitantly, he moved his now free arm around a bit before setting it down next to him. He had meant it when he said he trusted the Summoners completely – a part of him chided himself for such a foolish gesture; a war raged between his gratitude for salvation and the paranoia spawned over thirteen long years. But he refused to let it affect him.

That which was dark within him would _not_ define him.

"I am ready," he breathed.

The High Councillor nodded stiffly. She raised her own gloved hands and motioned to the other Summoners, and in _perfect_ unison an absolutely _brilliant_ chant blasted into the darkness of the room. The runes beneath his body lit up, an eerie green seeming out of place on the black finish, and Garret felt his body lighten all of a sudden. It felt… as though all of his earthly troubles and restraints just _melted_ away. The darkness around him cracked, and rays of red belted his vision from all angles. The warmth that permeated his mind, senseless as it sounded, _spread_. It travelled down his spine, surged out across his ribs and bubbled in his chest, and travelled even further, leaving a tingling sensation along his arms and legs.

Then the darkness _exploded_.

It was simultaneously a tremendous _crash_ and a near-deafening _boom_ – the darkness around him literally _shattered_ as a hazy crimson mist flooded his sight. The ritual chamber fell apart and floated away at an alarming pace, and despite Garret being _sure_ he was laying down barely seconds prior, he found himself on his feet, hovering in a red oblivion – he couldn't even make out the floor he was standing on. A void, by any other name – no shape, no form, no architecture or geometry at all. Just blood-red smoke as far as the eye could see.

Then he felt a hand gingerly sliding along his cheek, almost _caressingly, _and amidst the clouds of crimson, and ethereal, feminine voice drifted out.

"_You kept me waiting… my host…"_

* * *

It was done. The connection had been established, the boundaries had been set, and going by the feedback from her elite Summoners, contact had successfully been made. Vessaria Kolminye released a bated breath she hadn't even noticed she had drawn – situations like these may have differed in victim, assailant, and mental stability, but they were always precarious; this one was no different. She lowered her hands and stepped back, no longer required to conduct the orchestra of magics that would keep Garret and his visitor chained to his own mindscape. Her amber eyes remained transfixed on his mutated limb, though – the bronze-like shards were glowing as if superheated, and the limb itself was illuminated; the crimson light no longer 'pulsed' – it _shone_, displaying all those twisted muscles in all their abhuman glory.

Behind her, she heard the telling sound of steel scraping on steel. She did not need to look back to see the Judicator emerging from the shadows. The beating of wings, the sound of shifting armour and sounds of muffled breathing were enough to clue her in. "The connection is successful, then?" She heard the angelic woman ask behind her. "High Councillor, I _must _emphasise the risk you are undertaking here. The danger that man is in –"

"Is a great deal lesser," Vessaria cut her off fluidly, "than the danger he would be in if we pushed the spirit into rebellion. It has taken more than this young man's arm, Judicator, you _know_ this. It is anchored to his being, to his heart, and spine, and _lungs_. No," she said with finality. "This is the safer approach. If we find out what it wants we can try to reason with it – and maybe shelter this young man from its wrath as well."

"If you insist, High Councillor," Kayle conceded, touching down on the cold floors and folding her wings behind her. "Do you truly believe he can best it a second time, though? The spirit seemed downright volatile when I spoke to it, and forgive me for stating such but Garret Hillock is not exactly someone open to violent or malicious suggestion. There's bound to be some kind of clash, High Councillor."

"Of course," Vessaria nodded, unblinking. "It is for that exact reason that we engineered this little meeting. We _need_ that clash to occur, Judicator – heated arguments and verbal battles tell us more than honeyed words and half-truths ever will."

"And you are certain Garret will be truthful about what the spirit tells him?" Kayle inquired.

"Yes. Garret has been nothing if not courteous and completely truthful about his life," Vessaria answered, her gaze still locked on Garret's prone form. "Should we suspect he is hiding something we can always prep the Reflection Chamber again, either way." Her eyes narrowed, and as if in response Garret's arm glowed just a _bit_ brighter, almost tauntingly.

"Until then," she said, almost wearily, "we wait… and see how this plays out."

* * *

It had taken _every ounce_ of his willpower not to flail backwards and desperately try to put _some_ modicum of distance between himself and… _whatever_ had just touched him. A sharp intake of breath, and shut eyes were the only signs of the considerable fright he had experienced – his instincts, however, were still not complacent. They _howled_ at him to back away, to turn tail and run and shut out every external influence that would assail him. They tugged at his legs and squeezed at his heart, constricted his lungs and swung his mind into disarray – but for once, he stood fast.

Running would not save him now.

Cowardice would accomplish _nothing_.

"_Indeed it would not,_" the voice cooed, as if _aware_ of what he had thought. "_It is just us here, host… You cannot run from me… and I cannot run from you._"

Garret frowned. Part of him didn't trust his voice just yet – the fear that was sending the blood racing through his veins undoubtedly left its own mark on his speech, a quiver or a crack or maybe both. And yet… he couldn't bring himself to care about that.

"W-What do you want?" He asked, his voice firm, yet volatile, as though threatening to crack under a complex syllable.

"_Oh, you know what I want, my host,_" the voice said, almost knowingly, and around them the mist began to _change_. Shades darkened and lightened and the very smoke drifted in patterns that formed shapes Garret would rather have forgotten. Around him, wars waged; the very earth beneath them split apart under wave upon wave of violence and people – ageless, faceless shapes formed by crimson smog – fought for causes they didn't believe in. But they _fought_, and they fought _well_. Garret frowned as he took in the sights – with the way the smoke portrayed their surroundings it seemed more like a work of art, a practiced theatrical of grace and poise, rather than the hideous terror such a scene would be in reality. "_Yes… You know exactly what I want, my host… Just as I know you are not likely to grant it._"

"War?" Garret ventured, tremors still plaguing his speech. "Is that what you want? Or is it something simpler? Combat? Battle? Is that what you want, spirit?"

"_No, my host…_" the response was… several octaves lower than before. "_No, I do not 'want' battle. I do not 'want' combat, my host…"_ And suddenly, two slanted, pure white eyes appeared before him. "_No… Battle… Combat… I do not simply 'want' them, host… I __**need**__ them!_"

There it was – instinctively Garret repressed a shudder at those words. Finally he saw what he had seen in that ruin. When the spirit had said that word – 'need' – the undertones of adoration and reverence were downright frightening. There was _excitement_ in the spirit's voice for that fraction of a second, excitement matched only by the sheer amount of _longing_ hidden beneath the emphasis. The spirit was dangerously close by now, he could tell – the slanted white eyes hovered inches from his own, and he could _hear_ someone breathing, laboured and shakily, as though the mere statement of this spirit's _need_ for violence excited it – _her _– into breathlessness.

Nonetheless, with a final, _quivering_ exhale, the breathing faded away, and the two eyes backed off, narrowing as they observed Garret for a reaction. "_Do you know,_" she started, softly, almost muttering, "_how long I have yearned for it, host? The sounds of steel on steel, the scent of sweat and struggle as two beings fight for dominance, for sport, for __**survival**__… The sight of determination, of enjoyment, of fear and dedication in the eyes of those who kill, and those who die… Do you know how my soul __**aches**__ to experience it all once more?_"

"I… I know all too well," Garret nodded, eyes narrowed and face steeled. "I experienced a fraction of it – when you tried to force me to _kill_ all those innocent people. Do you recall that, spirit? Do you remember how you took my body from me? How you tried to _murder_ those near me?"

The blank eyes widened slightly, and despite the lack of a face Garret noticed a modicum of surprise in those glowing orbs. "_I took what I thought to be a corpse,_" the spirit answered slowly. "_Your movements, your heart rate, your __**thoughts**__… So erratic were they that I presumed you to be in the throes of death – as you humans so often exhibit. When my smoke enveloped you, host… You were not long for this world. You did not need your body."_

"So you just helped yourself…" Garret noted, taking another step back. "Forgive me, but I find this all rather hard to believe. One moment you fill my mind with images of _massacre_ and the next, you are as cordial as can be. You _attack_ the person sent to question you and now, all of a sudden, you act as though you cannot even _comprehend_ just how malicious you've been since… since you tried to take over. I may be a coward," he said, the quiver finally leaving his voice, "and not at all the sharpest tool in the shed, but I am not so foolish as to believe this hollow story! I… I will not be manipulated. Not by you."

The blank white eyes merely stared, again slightly widened. They seemed to hover there, for a while – as though the spirit itself were considering his words. Finally, though, they closed, and a soft, short chuckle drifted through the smoke. "_I know…_" The spirit spoke, low and begrudging. "_I was… desperate, after you shattered my prison. For what seemed like an eternity, I knew only… this,_" she said, and the white eyes gazed at the crimson void around them. "_Every second of every minute of every hour of every day… Nothing but my own weapon surrounded me…_" The eyes then turned back, gazing into Garret's own. "_When I was freed… When I felt the world around me again… I lost myself. Nothing mattered to me but the taste of battle – not even your wellbeing. A near-corpse before me and two powerful figures not much further away… How could I resist, host?"_ The spirit asked, in an almost _strained_ manner. "_How could I resist that which my very soul thirsted for, when it was so __**basely **__offered to me?"_

The eyes surged forward a short distance – as though their owner had taken a single step towards Garret. The former deserter stood his ground, pondering the words that had been spoken. "Why, then?" He asked finally. "Why jeopardise your freedom by _attacking_ the first people you laid eyes on?"

"_Because I __**knew**__ nothing else at that moment!"_

The sudden volume of the spirit's voice should have caught him off guard – it really should have. But some part of him, some odd, _curious_ part of him discovered a rather intriguing, yet ominous fact: Garret was making _progress_. Socially Garret was not an ace – scarcely he could tell when someone was being honest, or deceitful. But that hollered proclamation, that _grudging_ statement… It told him he'd finally earned some semblance of honesty from his toxic tenant. "Explain," he muttered simply.

"_I have told you,"_ the spirit said, once more sounding out of breath. The eyes shifted ever closer to him. "_Battle is what I live for, host… It is all I know… And those two beings, they… they were so __**powerful**__…"_ The being seemed almost _enamoured_ as it spoke – as if the sheer prospect of facing down Jax and Quinn offered it a degree of excitement incomprehensible to normal people. "_Especially the alien one… Never have I felt, or sensed, a mortal such as he, but… His __**strength**__…" _The being seemed to shudder. "_Were they not warriors, host? Is a glorious death in the heat of battle not the greatest honour I can offer them?"_

He grimaced slight. That… was a truly, truly _skewed_ form of morality right there – and quite a frightening one at that. "And the hospital staff?" Garret questioned, unrelenting in his assault of inquiries. "The doctor you mangled, and the impulses you sent flying through my skull, urging me to maim them? Were they also strong, spirit? Did they also deserve a 'glorious death'? Or do you just get some sick satisfaction from beating down on the helpless?"

"_**No!**_" It was an almost _desperate_ exclamation, Garret grudgingly admitted. The eyes formed a frown now, as if insulted by the very nature of his question. Interestingly enough this time it was the spirit's turn to step back. The eyes drifted further away, and as he noticed what he could swear was a hint of _uncertainty_ in them, he silently marvelled at how a pair of featureless eyes could show such emotion. "_Never… Not ever those who cannot fight back, host… There is no merit, no joy, no __**feeling**__… I was…" _It took another step back, and the eyes darted from side to side, as though the being was shaking its head – in anger? Frustration? _Denial_, maybe? "_You… You are so set on believing in my malice… You will not believe otherwise…"_

"Try me," Garret said, and only just managed to keep the look of surprise off his face when he realized how _challenging _his voice sounded. _Gods above,_ he thought offhandedly, _I'm starting to sound like a Demacian…_ "It cannot possibly be any different than what you've told me already."

The eyes stopped, then, gazing at him in an almost contemplating manner, hovering there in the distance. "_There was… one with a stained heart, near you…_" it finally spoke, slow and cautious. "_One with strength, yet no want for battle – one who cared little for such things. A killer, host – a murderer stood near you. That __**accursed**__ chain… I could not see who, or what, or where, but I __**knew**__, host… They had a killer on hand, one with a heart so dark and broken they'd not think twice of ending you."_

Garret did his best to repress a tired sigh. "That's your answer?" He asked, his voice matted with disbelief and exasperation. "You tried to motivate me into killing hospital staff because there was supposedly a murderer amongst them?" He asked. For a moment he stood, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to formulate words. "Do you… Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds? These people, the Summoners, they are the prominent power in Valoran. I am rather certain they'd know if there was a killer amongst… amongst…" He trailed off, and his emerald eyes widened as delayed horror dawned on him.

'_She's a ninja?!'_

'_One o' the best. She's part of the Institute's very own three-man gang, both on and off the Fields of Justice.'_

'_That, and the fact that she's a pretty remorseless killer._'

"_Host…?"_ Garret only barely registered the spirit's voice, and slight undertone of concern it held. "_You seem haunted, host… What has dawned on you?"_

"…The nurse," he said, and cringed as he noticed that pesky quiver had returned to his voice, intent on plaguing him more than ever. "The nurse who was there… She is… She's a ninja," he said, sounding incapable of processing the fact. "An assassin…" He took a step back, then another. "But it makes no sense! She's on the Institute's payroll, so certainly she can't be…"

"_Her heart would not be dark,"_ the spirit interrupted him, and the eyes once more moved forwards, "_if those of her victims were as well. This is what I felt, host, and __**this**__ is what I wanted you to see! With a killer stalking you there was no safety – it spelt danger, for the both of us!_" Another step closer. "_I was inhibited, host – chained, shackled, __**imprisoned**__… I tried to aid you the only way I could."_

"By pushing me into a murderous frenzy?" Garret demanded suddenly, a hint of anger creeping into his shaking voice. "By having me kill _everyone_ in the room?"

"_By having you __**act**__,"_ the spirit corrected him, hovering a few feet from his person. "_By having you __**force**__ the murderer into revealing themselves, and __**ending**__ them!... Before they could end __**you**__."_

"You… You cannot claim to know her like that…" Gods above, he was faltering. He could notice – the weakness of his voice, the tremors coursing through his body… Garret was losing control of this debate, and _rapidly_ at that.

"_And you can, host?_" The spirit questioned, moving forward once more. "_I have seen glimpses of your mind. I have seen your trials, your mad dash across this land. I have seen you feeling, and __**surviving**__, for thirteen years, host! Have you come this far by trusting every killer you met?"_

He opened his mouth again, only to snap it shut again, utterly defeated – in that aspect, at least. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the two featureless globes before him. This spirit… was highly troubling. One moment it – _she_ \- was erratic, ecstatic, and bloodthirsty, and the next, calm, controlled and almost as sharp-tongued as he was. Highly unstable, he noted worriedly, but so far, not entirely _malicious_. "What do you hope to achieve by doing this?" He asked finally. "Opening your mind to me, and digging into mine – what are you after?"

"_Understanding_, _host,"_ the spirit answered, quickly, _automatically_, as though _this_ was the one question it – _she –_ had hoped to hear, and answer. "_I… I am imprisoned here, host. I am imprisoned within __**you**__. My fate, my existence… It lies in your hands. It has… since you bested me in that ruin."_ The last part was spoken with more than a hint of bitterness. "_In life I was unchallenged, host. Unbeaten. Unstoppable, even. But that was in life, in the plane of flesh and bone. In those aspects you are weak, host. You are not a warrior, or a skilled murderer or an artist in the way of combat. You are normal. Average. I… I sought to exploit this when I saw you dying. A weak man weakened further by the loss of his lifeblood – the perfect vessel to let me __**live**__ again, to let me experience the __**thrill**__ and the __**ecstasy **__of unbridled battle. But I was foolish… I let my bloodlust and my excitement rule me, as I did in life… And they betrayed me once more."_

If it was understanding that this being sought, Garret considered, then she was going about it the right way. The longer he kept the conversation going, he realized, the more honest the spirit became, the more naturally and carelessly the being acted. Garret could make out hints of a personality in this spirit – he saw a being that seemed to revere combat as a way of life, a pursuit similar to how a normal person would classify _happiness_ and _peace_ in their lives. It was altogether frightening, that a being could be so _reverent _and _enamoured_ with bloodshed and battle… But yet…

Garret had yet to detect a lie.

"Why tell me all this?" Garret asked. "You and I are both aware that I am weak. Physically I'm worth less than a footman, spirit, so tell me: Why all the honesty? I… I had expected lies, deceit, I… I would have thought your hollow answers at first were mere cover-ups for something far more sinister, something more _manipulative_. Why? Why beg for me to understand you when it would be so much _easier_ for you to mislead me? You have glanced into my mind after all. What could make it easier?"

The spirit paused at these words. White eyes widened, narrowed, then widened again, before becoming oddly downcast. As if in synchronicity with the spirit's emotions, the crimson mist around them _darkened_ slightly. "_I… It would be futile, host,"_ the spirit admitted, lowly. "_No amount of manipulation in the world could help me. I am a warrior, host – an unmatched combatant… But that is all I am. I… I cannot best you. Not like this. I realized it, that day in the ruins. Despite your weakness, despite your wiry stature and despite your aversion to combat… As I am your better in many ways, host, so are you my better in others."_

"Wha… What do you mean, spirit?" Garret asked. Curiosity won over fear and wariness and he found himself taking a step closer towards the eyes, towards the spirit before him.

"_You are aware,"_ the spirit seemed to nod, going by how the eyes were moving up and down rapidly. "_You came here with the fact in your mind, disguised as courage and motivation. That day in the ruin… For all your weakness and fragility, you still bested me. You pushed me back, host – despite lacking a weapon, despite lacking a __**body**__… As savagely as I fought in life, you fought in spirit. You… You bested me, host. You established your might, your dominance… You became the warden and I, the prisoner."_ For but a moment, the spirit trailed off, hesitation dancing in those white eyes. "_Though you lack strength, and bravery, and magic and skill… You still have your will, host. You still have your spirit. And in those areas… In those aspects, host… I cannot defeat you."_

"Then why _me_, spirit?" Garret asked, his voice once again steady and his eyes sharpened. The more he spoke to this spirit the more confused he became. "Why insist on speaking to _me_? Why not the Judicator, why not the Summoners who have tried to contact you?"

"_**They**__ do not hold my fate in their hands…"_ The spirit said, and had Garret been any less careful he would have sworn he heard a hint of _glumness _in her voice. "_The angel is set in her ways. My very existence makes her loathe me – even a holiest oath would not make her see me as anything less than a threat. The others, the 'Summoners' as you've called them, they are the same. Some are intrigued, some are threatened, some are wary, but none of them will __**listen**__. You, host… You are the only one capable of understanding."_

"Understanding _what_, spirit?" Garret asked, his confusion finally mounting. "You've done nothing but confuse me so far, spirit. You… You've given me insight into you, and for that, I… I'm thankful. Your cooperation is… It's making this easier. But I am no closer to figuring out just _what_ I am supposed to understand."

"…_Hope, host…_" The spirit spoke after a while, its blank eyes downcast. "_You… You are the closest I have ever come to being __**free**__ of all this," _she spoke, eyes gazing at the crimson smog around them, "_and… it is likely you will be the closest I ever __**will**__ come to my freedom."_

Freedom… It all came down to that, didn't it… "Is that truly all you want, spirit?" Garret asked, and with another step he noticed he was standing right before the spirit's presence, if the closeness of the white eyes was any indication. It was quite worrying, being so close to an entity whose mood, whose very _personality_ could shift at the drop of the hat – especially when battle was mentioned. But… That one word…

_Freedom_.

Suddenly he understood what she meant… and suddenly he knew why she thought he'd be the only one who could.

"We… We are alike, in a way," he summarised, softly, his voice barely louder than the exhale he had spoken during. "Is this what you meant?" It all made sense, all of a sudden – one final puzzle piece to make the image whole, for him to see. They were two different beings, from two different times, of two different races and two different dispositions, and yet… There was a single, common denominator between them:

A yearning for _freedom_.

"_Yes, host,"_ the spirit answered, as though she had read his very mind. "_Sentenced to nothing but nothingness amongst the vapours of my weapons, with nothing to do, nobody to speak to or battle… Nothing but my own thoughts… I shall not hide my soul, host: Such a fate, as the one I have suffered… It terrifies me. It terrifies me more than even the concept of a world of pacifism, and peace…" _She paused then, pondering something for a moment. "_This is why I wished to speak with you personally. I… I am aware, that my disposition, and my inherent __**need**__ for violence would not sit well with you… But I clung to the hope, that I could convince you to aid me regardless."_

Garret finally broke eye contact with the spirit, gazing into the red smoke and his mind ever-intellectually processed the larger picture. With a grunt, he dropped to one knee, before sitting firmly on the 'ground' of the floorless void. With legs crossed and hands folded, he sat, thinking about the situation on hand. "I…" He began, only to pause. "Spirit, you have seen into my mind," he said finally, having found his voice. "You know I cannot, and _will_ not, in good conscience let you roam around attacking every combatant in sight. But…" He paused, considering what he was about to say. He was convinced he would be decrying himself as a complete and utter _fool_ had he even _entertained_ this train of thought at the beginning of this little meeting, but… Now, with the insight he had gained… Gods help him, he simply could not turn the other cheek. Not to _this_. "But I also know that _I_, in good conscience, cannot keep you cooped up in my arm. I… There was a time I would have sold my soul for freedom. To deny you that very same thing… Gods damn me, but I… I simply cannot do it."

Many times during his years on the run he'd tried to turn a blind eye to injustices and unfairness. Bless him, he tried his best – the few cases of success left him with more than a few sleepless nights as a result, _especially_ when he was hiding out in Noxus and Zaun. Mostly, however, he failed at keeping to himself – spectacularly at that. Damn Demacian blood, he'd tell himself. This… Warped as the concept may have been, and foolish as he may have seemed, to him this was another such case. Only this time he had the power to _do_ something about it.

"A compromise must be reached, then," Garret said with finality, nodding once. The white eyes before him drifted down, until he and the spirit were eye-to-eye. "Now I might not be a soldier, but I _am_ a scholar, and I like to believe I have the intellect to prove it. I _know_ your 'freedom' encompasses this body, _my_ body, spirit. And going by what I remember, and what I was _told_ about what happened in the ruin, you are more than capable of using it as if it were your own… _if_ you are in control. So tell me: What would your freedom encompass, spirit? What would satisfy you, as far as _freedom_ is concerned?"

"…_We are two minds, two souls, in one body,_" the spirit said slowly, and yet, it could not keep the slight quiver of excitement out of her voice. She seemed to be choosing her words wisely – careful not to let her hopes get the best of her. "_As you say, my freedom would encompass the use of your body, yes. But it is still __**your**__ body, host. You have proven yourself the stronger soul, and as such, dominance and absolute command are yours. Should I desire… animation, should I desire freedom, to move and see and speak and breath, I will try to let you know – both through mind and through spirit. And… And…" _She trailed off with a soft groan, eyes narrowing.

"Something the matter?" Garret ventured.

"_I was a warrior in life,"_ the spirit answered. "_I was undefeated, until my death. I… I am unused to yielding."_

"What does yielding have to do with anything?" Garret asked, his tone cautious – pride and honour meant a lot to warriors, from what he knew – he did not want to offend this spirit by questioning or downplaying hers.

"_Should you… Should you decide,"_ the spirit said, with an audible sigh, "_that it is acceptable to release me, we will… switch. Else, I… I will stand down."_

_Now_ it made sense. "I see…" Garret mused. "Well, even though I was a criminal, I'm not entirely unforgiving. It… Should I agree to this, it will be rare for me to actively deny you control. Freedom… is something nobody should be denied, after all. What would it be like, might I ask? To relinquish control? What will happen?"

"_I…_ _I do not know,"_ the spirit answered, somewhat tersely. "_I suspect it will be much like what happened in the ruin, only… much less mania on my part, and much less struggle and resistance on yours."_

"Less mania, you say," Garret responded, somewhat dryly. "Yes, that sounds agreeable. I suppose… I suppose the only way to know for certain would be to put this little theory to the test. I… I do not recommend doing so now, though. My body – _our_ body, should I agree – is surrounded by Elite Summoners, and the High Councillor herself. Somehow I doubt they would react… well, _calmly_ should I wake up and _you _are the present personality. You _did_ lash out at the Judicator, after all…"

"_She insulted my honour,"_ the spirit responded tersely. "_Her existence is grating…"_

Garret pondered exactly what the Judicator could have said to make the spirit despise her so, but decided it was best saved for later conversation. "I think I will reserve judgement," he said, shrugging. "I do believe, however, that we are straying off the topic. Outside this place, this little… mindscape, if I may call it so… I would be willing to offer you a bit of freedom. After all, it must have been… _ages_ since you've actually seen the world and all its wonders." He paused as the spirit hummed in agreement, and the eyes bobbed up and down again, a clear sign of a nod. "However," he said, rather sternly. "If I am going to trust you with my body I need to know that trust is not misplaced." At the spirit's rather… inquisitive look – _how in the burning hells did blank eyes show such emotion? _– he continued. "The Institute does not take kindly to conflict in its halls. I understand you have… a very healthy appreciation for combat and battle, but I cannot have you acting on that respect within the halls of the Institute – or any other halfway civilised place, for that matter."

"_You wish for me to stay my weapon, host?"_ The spirit asked, and Garret couldn't help but notice the slightly perturbed tone of her voice.

"I understand it is not a concept you are exactly comfortable with," Garret digressed, "however, I am not comfortable with the concept of sharing my body with you either. I am trying to reach a compromise here, spirit."

"_I… I understand,_" the spirit conceded, grudgingly. "_I do not __**wish **__to understand, but… I do."_

"Now I'm not completely heartless," Garret quickly spoke, trying to ease some of the negativity that had seeped into the spirit's demeanour. "I love studying to an unhealthy degree as well, and… well, I wouldn't exactly be content if someone were to restrain me from doing so. I do, however, happen to know that someone who truly _wants_ something will stop at nothing to find a way to _get_ it," he said, placing a palm on each knee. "Thus, I'm asking you now: What do we do about your love for combat? How do we scratch that itch without stepping on any toes?"

The spirit remained silent, for a worrying time. Its – _her_ – eyes danced from direction to direction, narrowing in thought and widening in realisation, only to narrow again in fervent disappointment. Garret himself waited patiently – partly because he had _no_ knowledge or experience as far as '_needs_' for combat went, and party because, well, this spirit had proved to be more than just a vengeful imprint of someone's soul. It – _she_ – had shown emotion, sense, self-control and even understanding at times. Now Garret was not someone savvy and experienced when it came to spirits and spectres, but at this part, grudgingly as it was he would admit he'd grown to see the spirit as a more… _sentient_ being during the conversation. She had honour and pride, and he would so hate to besmirch those.

Gods above. Barely a day ago he was _scared_ of this spirit. Now look at him – worrying about offending it – _her_ – as though she were actually a living person.

"_Is this world not rife with heartless scum, host?_" the spirit finally asked, eyes wide as though the greatest of ideas had just occurred to her. "_In life this land had no shortage of monsters that needed to be cut down. I am certain __**that**__ has not changed."_

"Absolutely not," Garret said, an exasperated frown on his face. "Vigilantism is considered a crime, even more so than desertion. I was just _absolved_ of my criminal charges, spirit, I am _not_ willing to go reclaiming them just so you can get your kicks."

The spirit recoiled slightly, eyes just a bit wide, before seemingly slumping down, deep in thought again. For but a moment Garret considered the chance that he may have been a tad too headstrong, especially considering the progress they had made during this meeting. However, the spirit seemed unperturbed by his response – if anything she seemed more put off by the fact that she couldn't even let loose on the criminals of Valoran. Nonetheless, he was certain the Institute didn't step in when charges of vigilantism were in motion. There was a vigilante in Demacia, after all, some shadowy-type of woman who hunted 'evil', and she was still facing minor persecution from Demacian officials despite being a Champion of the Institute.

And then it hit him.

And at the same time, the spirit before him locked eyes with him – and the excitement in those slanted white eyes told him she'd come to the _exact_ same conclusion.

"_Host,_" she started slowly. "_There is a solution. It's all around us,"_ she said excitedly.

And at that moment, the full realization of their solution came crashing down on Garret.

"I'll be damned… The Fields of Justice…"

* * *

The Judicator was not expecting something miraculous when the ritual to put Garret Hillock in contact with the spirit in his arm commenced. She had already given him her honest opinion on the vile being, and offered him a few choice words of advice, at the cost of a small fraction of her credibility in the eyes of the High Councillors. Nonetheless, Kayle was content with her prediction of the ritual's outcome. Garret's emotional state, as well as his words to the Summoners around him, confirmed that the man was done running. He seemed edgy, confrontational, and _confident_ – and Kayle was certain that those factors would push the spirit into admitting its intentions and in doing so, convince Garret to lock the being away permanently.

As such, when the magics keeping Garret in his mindscape started to strain, ever so slightly, she suspected Garret was finished with his little meeting. He seemed in quite a rush, going by how the incantation that kept him under started to falter under his attempts at waking. With a strict nod, High Councillor Kolminye motioned to her elite cadre of Summoners to halt the flow of magic that kept Garret anaesthetised. Slowly, one by one, they lowered their hands, each stepping back as the blanket of fluorescent magic around the former deserter dimmed. Within moments they had disappeared back into the shadows, leaving only Kayle herself and the High Councillor as Garret's wake-up party. She was unperturbed by that, though – their absence might make Garret get to the point much quicker.

No sooner had the elite Summoners disappeared, when Garret's eyes shot open and he flew into a sitting position with a deep intake of breath.

That part had gone according to predictions, Kayle thought confidently…

The former convict then turned to face the High Councillor, his emerald eyes shining and dancing in the dim lighting of the cell. The runes on the focus he was sitting on dimmed and snuffed themselves, and Garret slowly but surely shifted himself into a more comfortable position. With his legs dangling off the site of the marble furniture, and his hands braced squarely on its solid surface, the scholar sat still for a few moments, catching his breath.

_That_ part had gone according to her prediction as well…

With a shaky nod, though, he looked up – and offered the two of them a rather awkward grin.

"High Councillor," he started, his voice still shaky. "I… I may need a word with you."

…and _that_ part made her whole prediction collapse on itself.

Her throat went dry when the High Councillor merely arched an eyebrow, and showcased a rather intrigued smile. "Do you now?" She asked curiously. "You are… not as scared as you were when you went under, Garret," she noted. "There's some relief as well, I can see, but not of the type you feel when a tremendous weight is lifted off your shoulders. Why am I getting the feeling something very, very intriguing happened in your mindscape, Garret?" She asked coyly.

"Intriguing is a bit of an understatement, High Councillor," Garret responded, that awkward grin never _once_ leaving his face. "It is… It is a long story. Suffice it to say there's… _much_ more to this spirit than what one sees at first glance."

That didn't sound good…

"Is that so…" The High Councillor mused. "Well then, I suppose a more secure location is in order," she stated simply, as she started moving towards the door. "We should continue this in my office. Judicator, would you mind tagging along? I am sure you will benefit from this revelation as much as I will," she said wryly.

"…O-Of course, High Councillor," Kayle affirmed with a simple nod and folded her wings in a bit more. The journey to the High Councillor's office was one not easily undertaken by air. Besides, her wings had a habit of twitching whenever she got nervous – like now. Few had ever seen it happen, for there were few things that could actually _make_ her nervous… Unfortunately the chance of an uninhibited spirit causing chaos around the Institute was just one of those things.

Garret, who had barely paid her any notice apart from a courteous nod, hopped off the marble focus and tested his weight on each leg before strolling after the High Councillor. Kayle frowned slightly under her mask – surely someone who'd been on the run for thirteen years could tell when something malicious was about to befall them? It was impossible that Garret could be _so _foolish as to let the malicious entity have its way. Utterly impossible.

And yet… she had thought the same thing, many lifetimes ago, when her sister had first turned to the dark arts.

She grimaced under her mask, thankful that the golden armour kept her face hidden. She had been wrong then, all those millennia ago. She could only hope she wasn't wrong again…

Thus, with a concerned mind and a conflicted heart, she strode after the High Councillor.

Regardless of her opinion on the matter – she _had_ to know what Garret had learned.

* * *

_**One Hour Later**_

The silence Garret's departure had left was deafening. On one hand, Vessaria Kolminye was _ecstatic_ at the development; truly, setting up the meeting between Garret and his tenant had been a decision that would bear more positive outcomes than detrimental ones, provided the solution the young man had offered could be pulled off. On the other hand, though, Garret was now in contact – and cohorts – with an ancient spirit only _he_ knew on a personal level now. Herself, the Judicator, the Summoners – the spirit had locked them all out in their attempts to make contact before and she highly doubted it would change its – or _her_ – outlook soon.

It would be a _delicious_ bit of irony if the spirit was having them trust Garret as implicitly as Garret trusted _her_.

Nonetheless, Garret had told them enough to fill in the blanks – or most of them, in any case. She frowned. She had _no_ idea the spirit could have determined that the Fist of Shadow was an assassin, just as she had no idea said assassin was the catalyst for Garret's macabre, twisted visions before the spirit was completely subdued. Had she known at all, she would have refrained from sending the young ninja – if a normal nurse would have resulted in those visions not occurring, who knows how much sooner Garret could have made contact…

What surprised her more was Garret's unabashed willingness to go through another Judgement if the High Councillor deemed it necessary. Despite _fervent_ – and _vocal_ – agreement from the Judicator, though, it seemed as though Garret was being truthful. While they were not exactly fast friends, she could not deny that Garret had formed some kind of positive bond with his tenant, and she was not foolish enough to try and strain that bond, no matter how much the Judicator protested non-action in regards to Garret's testimony.

Said Judicator was now seated on a chair in her office, helmet removed and wings splayed out tiredly, twitching now and then in an oddly humorous manner. "Your worries are for naught, Judicator," the High Councillor said as she took another sip from the cup of tea she had prepared for herself. "Did you detect any trace of the spirit's presence, apart from what is focused in his arm?"

"…No, High Councillor," the Judicator answered from behind the palm that covered most of her face.

"Did you detect any malice, on par with those of the other spirits that tend to run rampant? Maybe something akin to what the denizens of the Isles exude?"

"…No, High Councillor," the angelic women answered again, still not moving her armoured hand from her face.

"Do we have any _logical_ reason to assume that Garret Hillock is not in complete control of his own body and mind?" Vessaria asked, the corners of her mouth creeping up into a cattish smile. "Any _concrete_ evidence?"

"…Does my experience with the spirit count towards that?" The Judicator asked, tiredly, hopelessly.

"By experience, do you mean the part where you angered it and pushed it into seclusion?" Vessaria asked with an arched eyebrow. "If your answer is 'yes', then… no, it doesn't count."

"…Then no, High Councillor," the Judicator responded listlessly, defeated utterly. "We have no reason to assume Garret Hillock is not in complete control of his own body and mind," she parroted half-heartedly.

"Then I see no reason why his application should be denied," Vessaria said cheerily. "If anything, this is a _good_ outcome, Judicator. It will allow us to monitor the spirit, and the unique talents it possesses, in a controlled, yet fitting environment, and as a bonus we get to enlist Garret and his scholarly talents to aid the Institute on a scale _outside_ large political disputes." The Judicator merely groaned, causing Vessaria's smile to widen slightly. Slowly, she set down her cup and stood, before daintily walking over to the angelic woman's seated form. "Just because we house a large number of spirits and spectres who are malicious," she said in a lecturing manner, reaching down and seizing the angel lightly around her gauntleted arms, "does not mean _all_ of them are. Why, look at Pix! Naughty little devil, but other that as harmless as can be!" She said cheerily, giving the angel's armoured arms a tug or two.

Sighing, Kayle rose to her feet and finally pulled her hand from her face. "Please, High Councillor," she said tiredly. "Please tell me you are not comparing a spirit that _lives_ for violence and battle to the Fae Sorceress' little companion." Here, in the dim light of the High Councillor's office, with no enemies or subordinates to see her, it was obvious just just how much of a toll the Judicator's day had taken on her. "They are as different as night and day."

Vessaria, however, merely smiled. "You've had quite a day, haven't you?" She said, her cattish smile never once leaving her face. Kayle was the strong arm of the High Council, and of the Institute at large, and Vessaria knew that, despite the angelic woman's narrow-minded ways, they owed a great deal to her, for her tireless work and dedication. "It shows, on your face. Troublesome visitors?" The Judicator paused for a moment, her face still locked in that mask of stoicism despite the heavy rings under her eyes and the overall defeated look on her features. "It is just us, Kayle," Vessaria said reassuringly. "You can afford to let your guard down a bit, can't you?"

The angel pondered this for a moment, eyes dancing with contemplation, before she closed them and sighed tiredly. "Fiora. Jax. Morgana…" She said listlessly. "The usual suspects. You… You should know by now who the greater hindrance was, High Councillor."

"That I do, Kayle…" Vessaria responded softly. "The day is over, though. I suggest you go get some sleep. Even immortals require rest – no matter how much you try to convince me of the contrary." She saw Kayle ponder her request for a split second, and predictably the Judicator opened her mouth to protest. "Do I need to formally relieve you of your duties for a while, Kayle?" Vessaria silenced the complaint before it was even voiced, with a sharp gaze and a wry smile. As expected, the Judicator's jaw snapped shut, and she reluctantly averted her eyes, silently admitting defeat. "That's better. You must be exhausted. I deal with Jax on a weekly basis – just being near him saps me of my energy. And you've had to deal with Miss Laurent and Morgana as well… and now this. Truly, today must have been a trying day." Kayle still refused to make eye-contact, a fact that made Vessaria smile a bit. Despite the angel having _millennia _of experience on her, she was still an open book to Vessaria. "Go get some rest," the High Councillor repeated warmly. "I expect to see you a bit more lively tomorrow. Are we clear on this, Kayle?"

"…Yes, High Councillor," the Judicator grudgingly responded. Vessaria smiled at the response – it seemed Kayle knew well not to argue when she was being read like a book. With a resigned sigh, the angelic woman drew in her wings, and tucked her helmet under her arm, and started towards the door. "And Kayle," Vessaria called after her. The angel turned to face her superior diligently, despite her fatigue. "I know you worry about Garret's little tenant. I assure you, I will interact with him personally. The moment I suspect the spirit is manipulating him, well… You have my word that I will step in immediately."

For but a moment the angel held the High Councillor's gaze. Then, her blue eyes fluttered closed with relief, and she nodded curtly. "My thanks, High Councillor," she said softly, _exhaustedly_, and without another word she turned and left.

Vessaria remained standing for a while, smiling at the door the Judicator had left through, before shaking her head and returning to her seat. Today, fortunately, was a day she _didn't_ have to deal with Jax and his attitude and as such, she had more than ample fuel left in her. Almost eagerly she assembled a slew of papers and set to work, making preparations and organising events to fit in to the Institute's grander operations. She smiled to herself, a hint of excitement on her features. Her amber eyes twinkled and her smile slightly creased the spike-shaped tattoo ending just above her cheek, but her fatigue from the day had vanished when she heard the good news.

After all, it wasn't every day the League gained a new Champion – especially not one with two souls.

* * *

_**The Next Day**_

Once more, Jax found himself happily strolling towards his favourite bar. It was barely midday, an unusual time for anyone to be sitting in bar when there was so much daylight to burn, but he felt he had good reason to head there. Just as it was never too late to celebrate, it was also never too early – at least, in his opinion, anyway. No, after the match The Champ had just partaken in, celebration was _mandatory_ – there was being The Champ and there was being _The Champ_, and the match he was returning from definitely counted as the latter.

He recalled it all vividly – the match had been in his favour since the _moment_ it had started. He loved it when his enemies fucked up, he _really_ did. When that Laurent woman sought him out, _without_ _backup_, he knew it was going to be a good match. He didn't even need to scour the whole forest – every time, he would easily knock that petulant little bitch's block off, and _every time_ she'd just come back, more pissed off – and more unfocused. It would have been a thing of absolute _beauty_ had the woman in question not been so damn rancid.

He even managed to get back at that jackass in the diving suit for hurling an anchor into his face a few matches back – if that wasn't a bonus, he didn't know what was.

That Laurent woman approached him after the match, in all her uppity, nose-in-the-air glory. He wished he could have bottled the look of outrage on her face – he'd bet that was the missing ingredient Gragas was looking for. It would've made for some _epic_ grog, that much he was sure of. The little brat muttered something about their 'business' not being 'settled'. "This isn't over," he recalled her saying.

He chuckled to himself. Silly little girl – it couldn't be over because it didn't even have a start. It was 'over' the moment she declared him her 'rival' – her little brain was just too primitive to comprehend that.

Yes, the Grandmaster at Arms was in an absolutely _wonderful_ mood when he swung open the door to his favourite bar and stepped inside as though he owned the place (which was almost true, considering The Champ is the main attraction anywhere he goes and thus, the bar's largest source of clientele). His mood was _so_ good he wasn't even surprised when he saw Gragas and Garret sitting at the counter, laughing about something and drinking away as though nothing mattered. "Oi," he called to them jovially. "Ain't it too early to be getting drunk?" He questioned, not at all hypocritically. Not at all.

"Never too late an' never too early, bub," Gragas responded with a slurry voice. "Get over 'ere already! We's celebrating and you're missin' out!"

"Celebrating, eh?" Jax chuckled, eagerly taking a seat, setting his lamppost aside and placing his usual order. "What are we celebrating?" He asked as he turned to his friends. Gragas merely grinned, undoubtedly already shitfaced – but seriously, when was he not? Garret, though… Garret seemed remarkably sober. But there was something different about the lad, Jax noted. He seemed… more relaxed. Less troubled, you could say. The Champ was certain he was missing something else – not that he'd admit it – but Garret's cheerful expression clued him in to main cause for celebration easily enough. "I'm thinking your meeting with your little tenant went better than expected, eh?" Jax guessed.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Garret admitted with a skew grin. He shifted his mug to his normal hand and raised his twisted arm a bit, and immediately Jax snapped what was different – that golden suppression chain was missing in action. "Suffice it to say we have… reached a compromise," he said cheerily.

"I'll be damned," Jax said with a chuckle. "You actually heeled her? Or is there something I'm missing?"

"'Heeled' is a rather poor word to use," Garret said hesitantly. "The spirit and I have reached a point of… mutual agreement, you could say. Might be a bit early to tell, but I would guess I wholly misunderstood what happened after the incident at the ruin."

"You mean it's not a fight-crazy monster?" Jax guessed.

"Oh, she's 'fight-crazy', make no mistake," Garret said with a short laugh. "She is… quite taken with you as well. I wouldn't call her 'monstrous' though. There is… much more that needs to be understood on that end of the spectrum." As he spoke, Jax noticed something. Around the green hue of Garret's eyes, there was something different – a hint of red peeking out around the iris.

"Yo, bud," Jax said, tapping his own mask where his eyes were. "You got something in your eye."

"Oh, I know," Garret said, grinning once more. "I am aware. It is little to worry about, though… It's her. She is merely… looking. Through my eyes."

At first, Jax's immediate instinct was to question the hell out of this bullshit. He seemed to have missed a major detail somewhere because apparently the thing that had tried to kill him in that ruin near the river was now being all chummy with his new bud. Had the circumstances been even _marginally_ different The Champ would have _refused_ to let such horseshit stand without a proper explanation – especially considering how happy the bitch in Garret's arm had seemed with the idea of peppering the Chickadee and himself with bloody weaponry. However, something halted The Champ – something made him reconsider. Garret himself seemed… _okay_ with the situation at hand. It seemed as though whatever was said between him and that bloodthirsty bitch lead to Garret not minding having to share a body with an ancient, ax-crazy spirit, and that, in turn, had led to something the former deserter had not known until now:

_Peace_.

That alone made The Champ refrain, albeit grudgingly, from asking too many questions. He still didn't trust the thing in Garret's arm one bit, but he had to digress: if Garret was okay with it, he didn't have much right to argue.

"Well, it ain't what I would've done…"

What? Just because he wouldn't argue didn't mean he wouldn't disagree.

"…But I'm happy for ya, bud," Jax finished, clapping the ex-Demacian on the shoulder heartily. "Here's to hoping you can get a few nights' worth of decent rest, eh? So is that what we're celebrating? No more mindfuckery, no more 'kill-them-all' moments? Just you and your pet spirit livin' out your days in relative peace?"

"'Relative' would be the key term, yes," Garret agreed. "Although that is only a fraction of the reason. I am drinking both to celebrate, and to build my strength for the coming days." Jax shot him an inquisitive look, relayed even from under his mask, and Garret chuckled again. "I _did_ confirm the spirit is quite bloodthirsty, didn't I, Jax? You can't honestly believe such a being would just step back and abandon something they live for."

"Wait, wait, wait," Jax said, bringing his hand up to try and halt the conversation. "I thought you said you reached a compromise?"

"And we did," Garret said plainly as he took another sip of his grog. "I get my freedom, and my peace, and, well… she gets her freedom, and her beloved combat." He shrugged. "The circumstances are far from ideal or idyllic, but I digress, it is something I cannot find inherent fault with," he said cheerily.

"How in the fuck did you manage that?" Jax asked curiously. "I mean, I saw that woman in the ruin, and – no offense meant, bud – she looked more than just 'quite bloodthirsty'. That bitch was aiming to kill us, y'know? Now I don't take offense, obviously a lot of people want to kill me because, y'know, they're _not_ me and can't handle that fact," he said, and politely ignored the dismissive snort Gragas gave in response, "but that woman was out for _blood_ in that ruin. How do you intend to sate that?"

"By doing what you did, of course," Garret said offhandedly as he resumed the task of finishing his grog.

"Now just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jax asked, already fed up with this riddling bullshit. Honestly, was it that fucking difficult just to say something straight and plain? Fuckin' hell, what was it with Demacians and fancy, eloquent ways of saying stuff?

"Think, ya lout," Gragas laughed heartily. "You ain't just talkin' to some clever boy anymore, Jax – you're talkin' to the League's newest Champion!"

For a few moments, an awkward silence reigned during which Jax alternated his gaze between Gragas and Garret. Finally, he shook his head and looked Garret dead in the eye. "Is he serious, bud? Have you really joined the League of Legends?"

"I have," Garret nodded, setting down his mug. "It will be quite a chore, and a joint effort at that," he said, somewhat contemplatively. "But I think that is a better solution in the long run."

"You're _damn right_ it is!" Jax said loudly, all of a sudden. His voice has inflected by several octaves, and there was an undercurrent of amusement beneath the waves of bass. "Damn, bud! I didn't think you had it in ya!" The Champ said heartily, giving the former deserter another clap on the shoulder. "Now see, why in the hell couldn't you have said that in the first place? D'you have any idea how many minutes of drunken celebration we've missed out on? Fuckin' hell, Poet Boy, this is great news!" He said, ordering another round of grog. "So who's gonna be in control, hmm? You or her?"

"It will vary at times," Garret said with an awkward grin, "but mostly it will be her holding the reins – especially when the going gets tough. After spending so long trapped in that sword, well, I figure she deserves some time without my inhibition holding her down."

"You'll still be there though, right?" Jax laughed. "If she can 'look' through your eyes I'd say you should be able to look through hers as well. Damn, this is gonna be brilliant. Just imagine, the three-er, _four_ of us traipsing around the Fields of Justice, kicking ass and taking names! Give it time, bud, you'll see soon enough there's a lot of fun to be found in opening cans of asskicking."

"Easy now, Jax," Garret grinned, that same skew grin that was characteristic of him. "I still very much prefer fleeing over fighting, but… I digress, if nothing else the experience should be amusing."

"You'll change your mind soon enough," Jax chuckled. "But we're getting sidetracked! Too much talking, not enough drinking – c'mon!" He said, raising his mug. "You're a Champion of the Institute now, Garret. You remember last night, you told me you're drinking to a 'new beginning'? Well? You think this is that beginning, bud?"

For but a moment, Jax caught sight of that brief hesitation in Garret's green eyes. He was honestly not surprised – Garret was no fighter, and participation on the Fields of Justice would no doubt be a new and completely alien experience for him. But almost immediately, that hesitation disappeared and a smile bloomed on Garret's face, and in that moment Jax knew: courage had become a much more common trait for Garret Hillock. Time would tell how long the self-claimed 'cowardice' would remain, especially around himself and Gragas – but at least the dude had some friends to help him along.

Under his mask, Jax's eyes fell on the twisted, blackened arm Garret now freely displayed. As if noticing his gaze it pulsed red once, _fleetingly_ before dying down.

He didn't trust that bitch just yet – but Garret did, it seemed…

…and for now, that was good enough for The Champ.

"I would guess it is, Jax," Garret answered his question. "I would guess it is."

"Well then! That means me need something new to drink to, eh?" Jax said boastfully. "Any ideas, lads?"

"How about a simpler life, finally?" Garret ventured a guess.

"And good times!" Gragas threw in, "and good grog!"

"That's it, then!" Jax said eagerly. "To a simpler life, good times, good grog," he paused for a moment, before uttering a manic chuckle, "and _tons_ of ass-kicking!"

And at that final line, Garret's arm glowed brightly in agreement.

* * *

Their little 'celebration' lasted well into the afternoon. Between Jax and Gragas, stories about conquests on the Fields of Justice were aplenty. Garret idly noted Jax was telling them about a woman named 'Laurent' – likely a family name, as he remembered a House Laurent in Demacia's nobler district – and how she was incapable of knowing that 'The Champ' is, was, and always will be her better. The stories ranged from intense to silly, and all of them equally humorous – Garret personally enjoyed the tale where Jax had beaten down the Laurent woman with nothing but a fishing rod he was using prior to the little battle.

And yet… something bothered him. Whenever they would talk about Garret's latest accomplice they would always refer to her as 'the spirit', 'your tenant' or 'that bitch', in Jax's case. A day ago, when he was still caught up in the wave of crippling terror at the prospect of speaking with her, this wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest – she _was _a spirit in his arm, after all, and back then, that would have suited him just fine.

But after last night's proceedings… After learning so much about her, and now finally having a personality to add to her general description, referring to her simply as 'spirit' was starting to seem a bit mundane. It felt cringy, in a way, in the same vein referring to Jax as 'Mercenary' would feel. Impersonal, yes, but very crass – very uncaring.

She was still there, though – he _felt_ her in the back of his mind, and that alien warmth in his eyes and ears told her she was still listening, and still looking, and offhandedly he noted a sense of relaxed contentedness that certainly wasn't his own. '_Say,'_ he thought inwardly, hoping his new ally would hear, '_Spirit? Are you there?'_

"_Host?" _The response came almost immediately, and Garret smiled into his mug at the ease which he could contact her. "_Does something trouble you? There is… a weight, on your mind. Nothing dark, but still noticeable…_"

'_Indeed, something troubles me,'_ he admitted to her. _'I am experiencing discomfort with a factor of our agreement,'_ he said, letting the words hang between them a bit. '_I have yet to receive a name I am to call you by.'_

"…_A name?"_ She responded, and Garret had to fight an utterly incredulous reaction at just how _dumbfounded_ the spirit had sounded. "_It has been so long… My life feels as though it occurred eons ago…"_ She mused. "_Yes… I remember now… I shed my true name early in life. I found it distasteful… unfitting. There existed a people, in those days,"_ she said softly, "_who called me by something else. It was a word I eventually took as my new name."_

'_Oh? Pray tell, then,'_ Garret urged her.

"_Are names not for the living, host?" _the spirit questioned, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. "_What use have I for one? I will only ever be known as a spirit to your peers."_

'_But not to me,'_ Garret replied, trying his best to have his thoughts sound 'reassuring'. '_What I saw during our meeting… If that wasn't someone 'alive' then I do not know what is. Come on,' _he urged her. '_Surely you do not want me referring to you as 'spirit' for the rest of our days do you?'_

"…_You speak sense,"_ the spirit admitted, grudgingly. She remained silent then, for a good while, and Garret took this time to take another sip from his mug. "_I suppose there is no harm… My life was so long ago, it is… safe, to assume that I have been long forgotten,"_ she said softly. "_Furia. My name… is Furia." _

'_Furia, hmm…' _Garret rolled the name around in his mind. Ever the scholar he immediately caught on to the language it was spoken in, and repressed a wry grin at the knowledge. '_Oddly fitting,' _he thought humorously, '_and oddly ironic, that a being who adores combat is named after fury.'_ He chuckled aloud, into his mug, and was slightly thankful that the grog within it captured the sound. Gragas, he noted, was telling Jax about a recent match on the Fields of Justice where he apparently got a 'fox girl' drunk in the middle of combat. '_Oddly fitting,'_ Garret repeated, '_and not at all a bad name. Well met, Furia.'_

And although slight, Garret felt the warmth in his mind intensify, ever so slightly.

"_Yes… Well met… Garret…"_

* * *

**A/N: Aaaaand done!**

**Phew. Well, like I said, this just wouldn't get finished - but finally, finally, it is.**

**Well I _would_ love to say 'The plot thickens', but seeing as I have no idea how this chapter will be received, I can't just yet.**

**We finally have a look into the spirit's personality, both the ax-crazy side and the more controlled one, as well as a name - hopefully you guys find Furia as interesting as you've found Garret to be.**

**You'll notice I've also included another champion in this chapter - Nasus, everyone's favourite late-game steam engine - as well as an expansion for the personality of Kayle, the highly dutiful, highly professional yet narrow-minded and often red-taped Judicator. How was it? Did I capture them in a believable way? Did I take too many liberties? Let me know - I am eager to fix any flaws I might have made.**

**Nonetheless, you have my sincerest thanks for taking the time to read this chapter. Special thanks go out to everyone who took the time to review, and even more thanks to Unseen Lurker for the stellar PM Review. You guys really helped motivate me into getting this out.**

**Until the next chapter, though, I bid farewell - and once more, many thanks for the support :)**

**-C**


	4. Chapter 4

**Pre-Chapter**** A/N: I'll keep this brief as possible - after all, there's an even bigger A/N at the end of the chapter. Oh joy.**

**Ahem. I'm still alive, contrary to popular belief. Life contacted me, and told me to take a break. I told him "No" but Life is petty, and we got into a fight. Life used cheap tricks like sickness, internet problems and rolling blackouts in my country that cost me upwards of 1500 words per blackout. Nonetheless, I emerged victorious, baring a new chapter - and a heavily bruised face. What can I say? Life has a _mean_ right hook. **

**Secondly, you'll notice in this chapter I took certain liberties when it came to an official League match. I did this because the run-of-the-mill incessantly mechanical type of League fic is boring. Rather, I'm basing the combat in this League match - and each and every one hereafter - on the A New Dawn cinematic. So... yes. Expect lots of exaggerated power and impossibility. Because it's cool. And to hell with limitations.**

**Lastly... This is a very, very long chapter. For that I am truly, truly sorry. Nonetheless, I suggest you make yourselves comfortable :)**

**Onwards!**

* * *

**Will of Iron, Heart of Gold  
Chapter IV  
First Blood**

"Never too early, never too late" had been one of the phrases the Grandmaster at Arms had grown to appreciate in his time at the Institute of War. True, some of the more 'restrained' and 'conservative' Champions had stated that those six words summed up his personality rather well – and often times in response, The Champ would show them that yes, indeed, it fit him better than they first thought: While it was never too early nor too late for Jax to be spending time at the bar – it was never too early nor too late for Jax to hop onto the Fields of Justice and wipe the floor with them, either.

As such, Jax found himself sitting at the counter of his favourite bar with nary a pesky presence to draw his attention from appreciating fine grog. It had become almost a way of life, really – if you came to bar seeking audience, or camaraderie, the Grandmaster would respond by sliding a mug your way, and if you came to the bar to pick a fight, well, you'd find yourself _outside_ the bar faster than you entered it – and you'd be missing a few teeth.

And bones.

And fragments of your memory.

But hey – to each their own.

The Champ's next tryst on the Fields of Justice was only scheduled for later, in the evening. He had plenty of time to spend in the bar, slurping on grog and flirting shamelessly with every attractive young lass that came stepping into the bar (which was quite an often occurrence, he noted dryly). In all honesty he was waiting on Gragas to finish up the match the old drunkard was currently participating in. Last Jax checked his old buddy had gotten into a skirmish against that mad robo-dude from Zaun, and, well, Jax was rather certain the old tin can would need more than a laser to melt through _that_ belly.

So good luck, and good riddance – booze doesn't give two shits about science, anyway.

After that, though… _That_ was when the good stuff would begin. Today was, after all, a really, really important day – Garret's first 'practice battle' would be taking place today. It was actually more of a test, really, to see whether Garret and Furia's little 'theory' of swapping control would actually work out, but in all honestly, battles were battles – especially when they took place on the Fields of Justice. The Grandmaster's plan was to retire to one of the Relay Lounges and watch the battle from afar – after all, the Chickadee testified that Garret was a right crafty little bastard, so whether Furia actually managed to take control or not didn't matter – Jax would be seeing something entertaining either way.

Or so The Champ thought.

Under the din of shuffling glasses, muted morning conversation and drunken slurs of people who came the night before and simply hadn't left, Jax heard something odd. The front door to the bar had opened, but with none of the usual ruckus you'd hear from someone who actually came to the bar to get slammed. No, Jax associated this kind of bar entrance with an entirely different intent – it was the type of entrance he'd grown accustomed to over the years.

"What, didn't I kick enough ass last time?" Jax asked aloud, spinning around on his bar stool to shoot a pseudo-glare at the Summoner who had so expertly infiltrated his favourite bar. "If this is about that little power spat up North, I'll say again: Find someone else. Those three are more trouble than they're worth."

The Summoner before him, a wizened old man with a beard long enough to reach his waistline, merely offered a wry grin, showing slightly stained teeth and an amount of wrinkles around the lips you'd only find on someone who lived a long, healthy, definitely-not-a-soldier's life. "We are well aware of your policy regarding the Freljord, Grandmaster," he spoke, his voice pocked with the signs of old age. "This does not regard that. Rather, it regards your new friend, Garret Hillock."

"Well ain't he popular with you people," the Grandmaster commented. "Whaddya want?"

"For you to lend an ear, if possible," the old Summoner said with a courteous nod. "High Councillor Kolminye, under advice from High Councillor Mandrake, has suggested I approach you with this matter. It regards Garret's practice battle today."

"What, you worried he can't take the heat?" Jax guessed, reclining back on the counter. "If that's the case, old man, then I can tell ya: Forget those thoughts and move on. Don't tell me you're one of those dumbasses who thinks he's 'pure' and 'innocent' just because he's got manners. What, ya think he survived thirteen years on the run by being nice and kissing ass?"

"Oh, no, I have the utmost faith in Mister Hillock's abilities," the Summoner said in a reassuring tone. "He has killed, I am aware. He does not know battle, true, but the young lad has a strength of spirit that makes him more than compatible with our little system. No, the matter I wish to discuss with you is far more pleasant; none of that 'doubt' and 'hesitance' nonsense Vessaria faffs about so much."

"Heh. Pretty accurate," Jax noted cheerily, ordering another mug of grog. "Well start talkin' old man. What have ya got for me?"

"An offer," the Summoner replied with a smirk, procuring a dark, leatherbound file from the insides of his robes. "Mister Hillock's practice battle will take place on the Twisted Treeline. While the High Councillors believe his theory in control alternation is sound, they wish to make sure that the mechanics between Garret and Furia operating a single body in turn are clear and precise, so as to avoid any… complications, in the future and during the larger battles, on the larger Fields."

"So it's your run-of-the-mill three-on-three rodeo. Nothing new," Jax said with a simple shrug. "Again: Why are we talking about this?"

"Because, Grandmaster," the elderly Summoner smiled, "Mister Hillock knows very few people in the Institute. The High Council has decided it would be in his best interests to have someone he trusts nearby, in case his agreement with the spirit in his arm… _fails_, as you might say. We have no doubt in our minds that Garret is resourceful enough to survive on the Fields of Justice, however… plans going awry often leads to inadvertent panic, and very few know him well enough to help ease that panic."

Uttering a bemused 'hum', Jax grabbed the leatherbound file and started fidgeting with the small zipper that kept it sealed. "So, what, you want me to hop in and show him the ropes?" He asked, as the zipper finally reached the end of its course and the file popped open. Immediately the smell of ink and worn parchment wafted out from within, a tell-tale sign that this document had changed hands many times.

"Indeed," the Summoner answered with a grin. "We are aware you are slated to participate in a match later today. The High Council has agreed to find a… suitable replacement for you should you agree to this arrangement."

Jax quickly thumbed through the various pages, observing several key details as he went. Indeed, there a profile hidden between the pages that fit the old Summoner before him, and indeed, it seemed as though the old geezer was going to be the one 'supporting' Garret during his little happy-time fun-time in the Treeline. He also saw several theses on Furia's origin, a safety-oriented document bearing the Judicator's signature – in _fancy_, posh red ink, at that. _Pft. What a snob. –_ and… He stopped when he found the page detailing the individuals Garret would be up against. He uttered a low whistle as he read the names. "Shit, old man," he said somewhat worriedly. "You're really pulling out all the stops."

"Brute force and restraining and-or hindrance capabilities," the elderly Summoner clarified. "Just in case Mister Hillock's little spirit-friend was… less than honest with us, and decides to indulge in similar activity to what you saw in the ruin near the Serpentine River. Merely a precaution, I assure you."

"Tell that to these assholes," Jax responded, tapping on the page with his finger. "At least two of 'em's gonna be out for blood. That or insanity, in _this_ one's case…" He said hotly, tapping a name on the paper a bit harder than necessary. "I can see why you didn't approach Soraka with this. She's strong, make no mistake, but against these folks… Tch. She ain't gonna last a minute."

"Our reasoning exactly," the old Summoner intoned. "This is why we approached you. Although…" He trailed off, and another wry grin bloomed on his cracked lips. "If the prospect of helping out your new friend is not enough, I can assure you there's something on the next page that should… pique your interest, at least."

For but a moment, six glowing lenses focused warily on the Summoner, and with a grunt, Jax turned the page. He took but a moment to read over the page before uttering an amused 'Heh'. His posture slackened a bit and he reclined back against the countertop. "You people just _love_ your irony, don't you?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny that, Grandmaster," the Summoner digressed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I take it the circumstances are amusing enough to make you consider compliance?"

Jax looked at the old Summoner a moment or two longer before turning his gaze back to the documents he held in his hand. On one hand, given the people involved, it seemed as though it could be an amusing, if ironic venture – something The Champ rarely had the privilege of partaking in. On the other hand though, the little 'practice match' was promising more chaos than one would normally find on the Twisted Treeline – the three individuals chosen to oppose Garret's team were not the kind usually used for practice battles. With a juggernaut, a sadist and a rather peculiar dark magic user on the same team…

It seemed as though the Treeline would be even _more_ twisted by the time the match was over.

That fact alone made The Champ reach his decision easily.

"Y'know what? Fuck it. Count me in, old man."

* * *

"_Once more your mind seems ailed by emotion, Garret."_

It took all of Garret's self-control and willpower to quash the immense feeling of discomfort his tenant's voice had spurred before it could even take root in his heart. It had barely been three days since he had established contact with Furia's spirit, and it was taking… well, it was taking quite a while to adapt to having the spirit of a battle-crazed lady of violence sharing part of your being – especially when she could so easily interpret what he was feeling at any given moment. Furia, it turned out, was quite docile when there wasn't a skilled, powerful combatant near to excite her, and it was in the centre of this docility that she seemed to turn her attention to the first available source to alleviate her boredom – namely, his own state of existence.

'_Nothing too negative, if that is what causes you worry,'_ he responded, a bit too quickly, he realised. He was seated in a rather confusing room, he admitted – he had been all across Valoran in the past thirteen years, and although his stops were quick and hushed, he admitted he'd never quite seen anything like it. It seemed both plain and incredibly lavish, both spartan and greatly furnished – from the golden inlays on the one-tone carpet to the lavish murals carved into the ironically unnoticeable columns dotting the walls, it was all rather vexing. Despite intricate attention to detail it seemed as though anyone entering the little chamber would be focused on one sole thing – the somewhat clandestine little podium in the centre of the room, housing standing place for about five people. There was a small, narrow hole in the centre of the podium, containing a glistening, bubbling (and _boiling_) mess – it looked awfully similar to mercury, but the fact that Garret himself was not gasping for breath, losing control of his muscles or suffering from some form of respiratory distress clued him in otherwise. '_I am merely… concocting something.'_

"'_Concocting…' Wordplay has changed much since I walked amongst the living._"

Garret bit back a chuckle. Literally the first day of their partnership Garret had discovered that Furia was, indeed, positively ancient – it lead to no small amount of amusement whenever she would find dote and fret over modern concepts she considered alien, which in turn lead to him feeling bad when his mirth caused the she-spirit distress. '_I'm creating different scenarios,'_ Garret clarified, '_and case studies – I digress, as an intellectual I am more suited to history and linguistics than actual battle strategy and science, but… well, it can't hurt to try. Everything I have done in life, I've done with some degree of planning – and as much as I have… 'faith' in your own abilities I would rather have _some_ semblance of a plan prepared either way.'_

"_Why bother planning?" _Furia asked hotly._ "All that extra effort, Garret… You already have me – our victory is all but assured."_ Said any other way, the she-spirit's claim would come across as boisterous – _arrogant_, even. But by now, Garret had learned enough about Furia to know it was more than an idle boast. Even without a corporeal form the woman's confidence seemed to eclipse any other trait of hers when it surfaced. Degrading as it may have been towards their eventual, inevitable foes, Furia wholeheartedly believed her claims.

The problem with beliefs, though, is that they are not always entirely _flexible_…

'_And should the transition fail?'_ Garret asked wryly, idly lacing his facing amongst each other and reclining in his seat. '_If you fail to take control? What then? Give me a blade and I won't even need a foe – I would be much more likely to injure myself.'_

"_Such negativity is unbecoming of you, Garret,"_ Furia scolded lightly, scoffing as she finished. "_If your spirit is already crushed there is little hope for victory. Besides, did you not claim this battle would be an experiment?"_

'_True, true,'_ Garret acquiesced, nodding once to himself. '_Experiments, however, tend to fail as often as they tend to succeed. Often the simplest solutions and theories are the ones that tend to crash and burn, and _that_ is when one needs to turn to the more complex applications of knowledge, skill, technique or any combination of the three. Needless to say, the thought of our little experiment becoming more complex than predicted is one that gives me pause.'_

"_This is why I choose not to share in your mind,_" the spirit of battle groused. "_Redundant thoughts and needless worry… Even during my life you humans tended to over-complicate and overthink matters… To see that this has not changed is not reassuring."_

'_I've told you many times before, I am a man who fights with his mind rather than… Wait,'_ Garret trailed off, realisation slamming into his being with all the grace and subtlety of one of Piltover's steam engines. '"_Share in my mind"? What does that even mean?'_

"_Our union transcends the physical realm, Garret,"_ Furia answered, somewhat hesitantly – a fact that didn't go unnoticed. "_We are two souls in one vessel. As our spirits share a body, so do our minds. Should you wish to look into my memories I do not doubt you could do so with ease – an ease which I can mirror should I desire to see your own thoughts."_

'_And yet…'_ Garret trailed off, resting his chin on interwoven fingers, elbows perched neatly on his knees as he slumped forwards. '_Yet you claim you choose not to. With all the time you've cried boredom I am… pleasantly surprised you have not simply helped yourself and gazed away.'_

"_I… do not wish to overstep,"_ the lady of battle said, somewhat sombrely. "_I… I do not know what compels this hesitation. In life I had little care to offer for the rights or privileges of humans. Their boundaries, individual or otherwise, were meaningless. Now, however… You freed me. You are _offering_ a degree of freedom… Even I cannot take such a gesture for granted."_

'_Warrior's honour, maybe?'_ Garret guessed after a while – if only to say _something_ to shake off the stupor Furia's proclamation had left him in. With every conversation he shared with the she-spirit he realised more and more just how _wrong_ his initial (decidedly fear-stricken and addle-minded) opinion of her was. Of course, there were times she proved him somewhat _right_ as well – any time she'd rant about engaging Jax or the Judicator in 'glorious battle' came to mind, because honestly, those descriptors she used were better suited to fine things like art or culture rather than all-out combat – but the keyword there was 'somewhat'; while Furia had proven to be decidedly bloodthirsty with liberal amounts of mania and innocently intimate gestures and sayings mixed in, she wasn't outright malicious – at least, not as far as the innocents or the noncombatants were concerned. Outside the craze of battle the woman was downright level-headed – if a bit unwary of modern nuances. '_Whatever it is, I will not question it – your honesty regarding the matter is much appreciated, Furia. My past… well, if the need arises I will let you 'see' whatever must be seen, but… as things stand now… For better or for worse, whatever happens in our practice match, and whatever happens after – that's something new. The first page of a new book. My past… is a chapter I'd rather not look back to right now.'_

"_As you wish, Garret,"_ Furia spoke, accepting his action without thought of motive or reasoning. "_But again… Why must you be so hideously eloquent? Can you not simply say 'start life anew' like any other human and let it be?"_

Once more, Garret found himself fighting back a chuckle. Furia had proven herself to be a very, very simplistic being when the 'art of battle' was not involved – she had little use for things like wordplay, slang and jargon when it came to communication. It seemed the height of the complexities in her existence only bloomed when the prospect of combat was near. '_This is how I have spoken all my life,'_ he said inwardly, shrugging. '_It comes with the territory of exploring modern linguistics. Uh, that is, well, you tend to be overly eloquent when you are learning-'_

"_Garret,"_ Furia interrupted, sounding… exasperated? "_I may not understand why you do it, but I am aware of when you are using wordplay. It is an action not exclusive to humans. I am more than capable of deducing what 'comes with the territory' alludes to. It merely irks me that you have found so many complex ways to state such _simple_ things…"_

'_I… Of course,'_ Garret surrendered quickly, realising that there _was_, in fact, such a thing as putting too much thought into something. '_I apologise. I am still… getting to know you.'_

"_You will know more than you could ever wish to, in time,"_ Furia responded. "_Humans always claimed there were no greater bonds than those forged by fighting alongside one another. I admit I did not experience this personally – but I believe we will discover the truth of the situation in time."_

'_Time,'_ Garret started, perking up as he heard the tell-tale scraping sound of a door being used, '_that seems as though it may come early,'_ he said as the door slowly swung open. Garret found himself frowning – these Summoners all looked the same from a distance. True, there were varying identifiers a skilled eye could pick apart, such as the varying patterns on the shoulders, the length and quality of the robes themselves, the lavish inlays on the sleeves and – worriedly – the curve and shape of the hood, but alas, the scholar found himself distinctly lacking the knowledge needed to accurately identify who was who.

At first he felt rather miffed about this – after all, a scholar without knowledge is akin to a mage without actual magics.

This feeling persisted all of a handful of seconds – until Garret recognised the long, scraggly beard which was obviously – _obviously_ – a violation of some kind of dress or neatness code.

"Ah, Mister Hillock," the familiar Summoner greeted him jovially, hints of a smile shining through the undergrowth of facial hair. "Normally our newer Champions need to be escorted here. One can hardly blame them, they do _not_ know the interior of the Institute, after all, but most of the time, the majority of preparation time is spent finding _them_. Finding you here ahead of time is… well, it's a pleasant surprise."

"Jax told me some stories about Champions getting lost coming here," Garret agreed with a smile, standing up from his seat. After all, his father had taught him it's only polite. "I memorised the route here about two days ago," he admitted. "After all, I would so hate to cause more effort than usual, so, well… Here I am."

"Here you are," the elderly Summoner agreed with a grin. "This is delightful, actually – I heard you were planning a little experiment of sorts, and I was hoping I could aid you."

"Oh?" Garret was intrigued – his decision to attempt coexistence with Furia had earned him no small amount of disapproval, from no small amount of sources. To hear a Summoner was willing to try and aid him was rather gratifying.

"Yes, yes, of course. Wisdom is a rare thing where I come from – not many live long enough to achieve it. Then again, not many find themselves attuned to magics there either, so I guess I'm a bit of a black sheep, eh?" He said with a subdued chuckle. "Anyhow, see, in the past we had a special little tradition when it came to the newest Champion's first test match. We'd allow them into the Fields of Justice ahead of time, if only marginally, so they could familiarise themselves with the terrain and, if necessary, gain a hint of understanding of the magics that would be sustaining them." He paused. "Well, we _used_ to do such a thing, until that manic little girl Jinx almost blew up her own Nexus before the match even started. Suffice it to say the practice was abolished with… great vehemence after that little incident, but I hardly believe you are the type to draw destruction wherever you go, are you?"

Garret didn't quite know what to make of it all. Granted, he _still_ didn't know what the Summoner's claim to wisdom had to do with the tradition he spoke of, and a noncommittal noise from his tenant clued him in he wasn't exactly alone in that train of thought – but still, what the Summoner was offering was something extraordinary. "Such an action is allowed?"

"Of course," the elderly Summoner said with yet another chuckle. "I appealed directly to the High Council for this matter – they gave their blessing rather quickly. Especially Councillor Kolminye – she seems to show great interest in your union."

"_Of course,"_ Garret heard Furia muse as the Summoner spoke. "_You humans have always shown a fascination for things you could not comprehend."_

"Besides, your final teammate proved to be… difficult to find, so he will be a tad late – and it would be nothing short of _rude_ to make you wait on account of our own disorganisation. If you will?" He motioned to the podium in the centre of the room, and strolled towards it. Garret followed suit, equal parts excited and wary.

"I am… a tad confused, sir," Garret spoke up as he moved. "Granted, I do not know much about the Institute of War, but I've heard and seen enough to know that it is one of the largest, most powerful factions on Runeterra. It strikes me as odd that something as simple as a test match could spur disorganisation."

"As it should," the Summoner replied jovially, stopping once he reached the bubbling pool of liquid. "Mister Hillock, yours is a very, very unique case. As it stands you will _not_ be fully inducted into the Institute – as a Champion, at least – until we are completely certain you are capable of transitioning with your spirit friend as effectively as possible. While most of the Champions of the Institute are fairly heroic and more lawfully aligned than most, I regret to inform you we have several combatants who are… less than sporting, and will outright _leap_ on the window of opportunity a failed switch on your end provides."

For but a moment, what little remained of the Demacian in him wanted to say "Like every Noxian ever?" Alas, of all the darkness he'd seen in his travels, the Noxians surprisingly ranked quite far from the top. As things stood, Garret would rather take a night in the slums of Noxus before going anywhere _near_ some of the more suspect places he'd encountered in life. Zaun in particular qualified – slaving away at making a living in Noxus was a far, far cry from people disappearing in the middle of the night to fuel some madman's experiments. That, and the smell… Ye _gods_, the smell…

Rather, he pondered exactly who – or _what_ – the elderly Summoner could have been referring to. Jax and Gragas had told him about the varying factions and civil strife and unrest in Valoran, and they'd told him much about the pool of independent combatants who had come to the Institute. Jax himself was one such an independent, and depending on Garret's preference he'd be falling into that exact same pool. His charges may have been cleared, after all, but he was still far from ready to try to return to the Golden City.

"So, rather than the usual standard, we have decided to… 'restructure' your little team for this match, to ensure those with the correct capabilities of aiding you are here to ensure your little experiment goes as smoothly as possible," the Summoner intoned. Garret thought he could see another smile, but beneath the jungle of facial hair he couldn't quite be sure."

"And that is why there are delays," Garret summarised. "Of course. Restructuring _any_ kind of team or organisation on such short notice is a rather trying affair. Nonetheless, I… I am thankful you have taken it upon yourselves to try and aid me."

"Think nothing of it," the Summoner spoke again. "Yours is a very unique situation. If anything I believe we have not seen such a case since the Arrow of Retribution joined our ranks, and even he is not a carbon copy of you. Then again, I digress I have not been the most observant regarding the newer Champions so I may have missed one or two with certain similarities. Bah. It hardly matters now," he said, nonplussed. With a flourish of his hands – and by extension, the ridiculously oversized sleeves they were hidden in – the boiling pool of unidentifiable liquid-stuff swirled and churned before rising from its circular holder.

It was almost _sentient_ in its movement – a glinting trail of bright silver flowed around the aged Summoner, expanding and twisting, writhing and calming, ever-changing in both function and action – and yet, there was something profound about how it seemed to do _nothing_ while doing _everything_; even that which liquid should not be capable of doing. It split apart at the tip, forming into three separate tendrils of spasming magic; it solidified into varying forms as the triplicate tails swirled around their wielder – one fragment would form a square, another would form a circle, and others formed shapes ranging from more mundane to more _amazing_. Garret was certain he saw several rather alien shapes as well.

Finally, though, it seemed as though the fluid material tired of its graceful display – with several loud cracks it shed its metallic skin. Shapes lost form as flakes of silver fell away and dispersed into nothingness, leaving only waves of the most _brilliant_ azure surrounding the old man. Slowly the strands of magic drifted towards the wizened Summoner's outstretched palm, and they seemed to fold upon each other as they took form. One after the other the wisps of arcane energy condensed, and within mere seconds of it shedding its metal coating, Garret found himself staring at a brilliant sphere of light, not at all unlike the one used when he first made contact with Furia.

"_Human magic has come far since I lived,"_ he heard Furia speak. There was a grudging tone of admiration in her voice. "_Such magics took days of preparation then."_

"Well, Mister Hillock," the Summoner spoke up. The sphere illuminated his face, enough for Garret to identify a grin with all but unwavering certainty. "As much as a casual chat would amuse me, your match _is_ starting soon." He held the orb forwards, hovering it between his hands as he took a few steps back. Only now did Garret notice the faint runic circle etched around the podium – undoubtedly also magical in nature. "So if you want to familiarise yourself with the Twisted Treeline, well… Time's ticking away, as they say. Or at least I think that's how they say it," he mused with a confused expression. The circle of runes lit up as the old man stepped away – it was, from an aesthetic approach, rather lavish. Rows of thorns and twisting lines were interwoven with symbols and glyphs from tongues long forgotten.

"This podium… This is how I'll be transported?" The scholar asked, unable to keep the slight hints of trepidation from his voice.

"Indeed," the old Summoner confirmed. "When you are ready, you must merely take a step onto the platform and let the magic take you. I am present, and focused, and we have a group of Summoners monitoring the system around the clock." He was smiling again. "It is natural to be somewhat hesitant at this part, but I assure you – nothing will happen to you. Well, at least not during the summoning," he said candidly.

Garret cast his gaze down at the runic circle, and despite himself, he found himself biting back a shaky laugh at the sheer _ridiculousness_ of it all. Barely a month ago he was a fugitive on the run – now, here he was, about to step onto the Fields of Justice, battlegrounds reserved for _heroes_ and warriors without equal, in order to grant the wishes of a spirit that had merged with him via an absolutely laughable yet admittedly _amazing_ series of events. Had someone told him weeks ago that he'd even be on speaking terms with the Institute of War, he'd have laughed at them and made note to bolt from that particular village as soon as humanly – and somewhat inhumanly – possible.

Now, here he stood, with an ancient, violence-hungry spirit trapped in his arm, and about to step into one of the Fields of Justice.

Were he a lesser man he'd have claimed irony had its knife in for him.

"_Garret,"_ he heard Furia's voice echoing in his mind. "_I do not wish to pressure you but time _is_ running out – and I admit I am rather eager to see whether our plan is successful."_

'_I suppose it is rather meaningless to keep delaying it,'_ Garret agreed, nodding to himself, odd as the gesture may seem. He had a tint of red to his vision, he realised – a cloud of crimson peeking out _just_ past the edges of his peripheral vision. With but a hint of trepidation he took a step forwards. '_Well… Witty one-liners have never truly been one of my strengths… So I guess we're doing away with that. Are you ready, Furia?'_

It was more a question to delay just a bit more, and for but a moment the scholar feared such an action would tick her off. Fortunately, though, the first response he heard from her was a soft trill of laughter – almost inaudible. "_I have been ready since the moment you freed me, Garret."_

'_Okay, then…'_ The prospect of stepping onto the runic circle still loomed overhead as a very, _very_ daunting prospect – on one hand, he could always cut his losses and flee right away. After all, such is how he lived most of his life. On the other hand, though… He _had_ given his word. If Furia was willing to compromise, so would he – a coward he may be, but damned if he wasn't going to try his best to be an _honourable_ coward.

So in a moment of blind, somewhat self-spiting resignation, the scholar closed his eyes and took that final step forwards.

A _stream_ of light exploded beneath him the moment both feet stood firmly on the stone platform. It was as though the runic array had been waiting with bated breath and barely-concealed excitement – the sheer _force_, the sheer _volume_ of the magics blew his long hair upwards and even caused the tails of his duster to flutter behind him akin to boneless wings. A whirlwind had seemed to erupt into the small chamber – even the elderly Summoner's robes fluttered as though they stood in the eye of the storm.

It was at that precise moment that the light intensified.

And as if to accompany him on his Summoning onto the Fields of Justice, he could just _barely_ hear the old magus' voice.

"Best of luck to you… Mister Hillock."

* * *

'Vertigo' would be an apt way to describe the transition from chamber to battleground – pseudovertigo, to be exact, Garret thought as he stood amidst the blinding lights of the Summoner's magics. While it might not be listed as anything 'official' Garret could, at the moment, think of no other way to describe the incessant sensations of dizziness one would normally attribute to the affliction. The intensity of it all was almost staggering, really, and the worst part was that the scholar could actually _feel_ the different sensations whirling about in his head. Idly, amidst muttered curses and somewhat discomforted groans, Garret managed to mutter his hope that this was a one-time thing.

And then, almost as soon as it assailed him, the affliction dissipated.

The sensation of dizziness evaporated into nothingness and a wave of cold washed over him. The light around him had reached its utmost peak, shining brighter than ever before, and the howling gales of the pseudo-hurricane that had been whipped up in the small summoning chamber fell silent, replaced by a low ringing sensation, a _whine_ in the endless expanse of white.

And just as the light began to dim, the scholar saw something before him – impossible, unimaginable in his own opinion, but so close, so seemingly _real_ he could almost touch it.

For but a moment, wild, dark locks of hair splayed out before him, and hazel eyes met his own emerald ones, displaying an enamouring warmth and just a _slight_ hint of mischief. Narrow lips sketched an intimate smile on tanned cheeks and an angular face, and for but a moment, Garret could have sworn he felt a hand cupping his cheek.

_Farah…_

The light faded away – and with it, the illusion of the woman he had grown to love over his long trek across Valoran. Darkness and shadow pierced the white expanse created by the Summoning, and what little remained of the illusion – a faint outline and faded colour – blended into the ebon haze that permeated the run-down little camp before him.

He stood there for a while, unblinking, breath held – before exhaling shakily, his shoulders slumping as he did so. In a way he was happy such a thing had happened – after all, memory could only serve so much – but a part of him, embittered by loss and sorrow, harboured a small, _small_ amount of ire at the gesture. It was, after all, still rather painful to be reminded of that cruel loss.

"_Someone you held dear?"_ Furia's voice echoed in his mind, smooth and controlled, and yet… just a tad sympathetic.

'_Those words are not enough to describe it,'_ he said, taking note of how glum his voice sounded. He'd have to change that, and soon – Farah would give him an earful and a half if she knew he let her memory haunt him like that. '_She… I cannot describe how much she meant to me.'_

"_For what it is worth,"_ the she-spirit spoke, "_from the glance I was given – she was quite beautiful. Nonetheless,"_ she trailed off, "_I will leave the matter – I can sense speaking of her causes you distress."_

'_I… I appreciate that, Furia,'_ he said sincerely. '_I… I appreciate everything, honestly. You... You have been nothing but cooperative since we established contact. You have not pushed or prodded – gods above, you've even left my privacy intact. I… Such gestures mean much to me.'_

"_As the freedom you offer means much to me,"_ Furia responded, and Garret could have _sworn_ he heard the makings of a smile on the she-spirit's lips, had they existed. "_Now, shall we divert our focus elsewhere? The battleground awaits, and I yearn to stain it red…"_

For but a _moment_ Garret paused, mouth open and ready to comment on just how _morbid_ their conversation had turned – but in the end, his jaw snapped shut and he merely chuckled, some of the foulness in his mood already evaporating. Leave it up to Furia to go from sympathetic to bloodthirsty at the drop of a hat. He resolved not to think of all the hijinks this could cause in the future.

No, instead of trying to psychoanalyse the bloodthirsty spirit that now constituted part of his being, Garret decided to analyse his surroundings instead. He seemed to be on an elevated altar of sorts – there was an _enormous _statute of… something or another behind him, its clawed hands holding on to a dull, lightless, _lifeless_ crystal undoubtedly designed with a magical purpose in mind. He noted two sets of stairs – one on either side of the altar, and both looking as though they had seen many, _many_ better days. With a somewhat resigned shrug, he descended down the ruined stairs and into the small camp waiting beneath.

There was definitely something morbid about this place, Garret realised – admittedly, he had not been foolish enough to believe it would be a battlefield laden with fields of flowers and pretty waterfalls and oases and all those lovely things when he first heard the words 'Twisted Treeline', but still…

He strolled past the large crystal at the centre of the camp – obviously some sort of integral part to the match – and walked right up to the waist-high wall at the edge of the camp. A grisly sight met his eyes – had he been a lesser man he would have claimed the canopy of bare, mangled, downright _ominous_ branches and the seemingly endless coat of fog that blanketed the area storeys below him was an affront to nature – if not an outright anathema to it. Truly it was a macabre sight – it almost made him wary of descending the muted gray roads leading out of the small base camp and into the horrifying undergrowth that the perpetual blanket of mist undoubtedly hid from his vision.

"_This place… Its mere existence is a blight upon creation,"_ Furia spat, the distaste in her voice ringing through Garret's mind, and for but a moment, he _felt_ her disgust at the area before them. "_And yet… it is oddly fitting. Everything here is dead… Everything here is already damaged. There is nothing of importance to destroy, nothing of value to preserve. A battle here would be unbridled – no limits, no restraints, nothing. The idea of fighting here…" _she said somewhat glumly. "_It is both insulting and exciting. I can only hope our opponents are of greater quality than this provided graveyard."_

'_Speaking of,'_ Garret wisely steered the conversation away from any topics that could further embitter the battle-lusted spirit, '_Time runs short. We should see if our transition succeeds, no?'_

"_Indeed…" _Furia responded – and confusingly, only silence followed.

'_Uhm… Furia?'_ Garret ventured, reaching out to his tenant. '_Isn't this… Shouldn't you be trying to take control now? Like you did in the ruins?'_ He questioned. '_Heavens know I am not resisting… Although I am certain there needs to _be_ something to resist before I can actually resist.'_

"_You… feel nothing?"_ The question he gained in response did _nothing_ to set his mind at east – if anything it instilled the faintest sliver of panic in him.

'…_No?'_ he answered truthfully. '_You have been trying, then?'_

"_Tirelessly,"_ Furia replied, a hint of panic in her voice as well. "_I… I was aware this would not be _simple_ but I was at hoping for at least a _hint_ of progress when we would start!"_

'_Now, now, calm down,'_ Garret tried to placate the spirit of combat, ignoring the fact that he was slowly _losing_ his own calmness made him more than a little bit hypocritical. '_This is why I spent all those minutes concocting plans and contingencies, remember? I was also aware this wouldn't be a simple task, and I am more than a little disheartened by the lack of initial progress, but as much as the situation scares me I refuse to give up just yet.'_

"_Garret?" _There was a note of curiosity in Furia's voice, a hint of confusion regarding his actions.

'_I gave you my word, didn't I?' _Garret responded glibly. '_We reached a compromise, after all – you upheld your end of the deal and I'll be damned before I abandon mine. It is going to take a lot more than the threat of danger to make me break my oath.'_

For but a moment, Garret received little response. The silence in his mind, caused by the absence of stray thoughts, was almost deafening, and for but a moment he feared they had somehow lost their think – an absolutely _catastrophic_ possibility – but after a while, the she-spirit broke the hollow void in his mind. "_I… You… You surprise me more with every passing day, Garret,"_ she finally relented, with the _slightest_ modicum of docility in her voice. "…_Tell me about your plans."_

Deciding not to push the topic, Garret merely allowed himself a nervous smile. '_Well, I have _one_ somewhat concrete theory. I do not like one bit but, I admit, thus far it seems to be the thesis with the most credibility behind it. See, I have taken the liberty of looking into Jax and Lady Quinn's recollection of what happened in the ruins, and… Well, their testimonies contribute to the validity of the theory greatly.'_

"_If it involves the ruins I already despise this plan,"_ Furia offered.

'_As do I,' _Garret agreed, his panic hitching somewhat. '_However, such is the way the process of elimination works. I would reckon…'_ He paused, trailing off a bit. '_Gods above, I cannot _believe_ I am about to suggest this, but… I would reckon my physical state has a lot to contribute to our little experiment. So… Well… What I am trying to say is… Well, I think some physical trauma is in order - at most a state of near-death.'_

"_Preposterous,"_ Furia's immediate response was short, curt, and to the point. "_You will be facing different foes here – they savour the kill more than they savour the price. You… You would not last past your first breath."_

'_Well, I never said I _wanted_ to,' _Garret argued, somewhat feebly. '_Gods above, the mere thought of putting this little theory into practice terrifies me.'_ And it did, if he were completely honest – with capable individuals like the ranger Quinn, Jax, and – dare he say it – even Garen Crownguard partaking in these battles, Garret was rather surprised the thought even being within fifty feet of them when they were armed didn't make his legs quake instinctively. '_But as cowardly as I am, I am also logical – and going by my logic, our little switch was only ever possible when I had been shredded by a shotgun and left to lose vital amounts of blood. Let me ask you: Back in those ruins, had I _not_ been grievously injured – would you have managed to take control as you did?'_

For a few moments, stillness echoed in his mind once more. "_I… I do not believe I would have been able to, no,"_ Furia finally admitted. There was a hint of bitterness in her voice.

'_So,_' Garret started, rubbing his palms together and trying to ease away the trepidation and instinctual hesitation that normally came with plans the likes of which he was suggesting. '_If you took over while I was injured and claim you could _not_ if I am in perfect health – relatively speaking – then factually, as grim as my suggestion is, it is also the only theory that has so far come to fruition, so to speak.'_

"_Factually, you nearly perished as well,"_ Furia helpfully reminded him, "_had it not been for our merging."_

'_And I am eternally thankful for it,'_ Garret quickly responded, pinching the bridge of his nose with his abhuman hand. Some tension evaporated at that moment, and only then did he realise just how nervous what he was suggesting made him. '_Alright, so obviously this little theory is not going to be put into practice – not deliberately, at least… Although I admit I am not disappointed by the outcome. I cannot help but feel I have been pardoned from the headsman's block.'_

"_He who goes _willingly_ cannot be pardoned,"_ Furia said testily. "_What else? You _must_ have more than one plan."_

'_Have a little faith, Furia,'_ Garret responded. '_I would be a rather poor intellectual if that was as far as my planning went. Although I must admit, my other theories and plans are… slightly more complex. They are not as easy as letting others bash me around a bit. My physical health was only one part of the equation of what happened in the ruin – there are deeper physical levels, and other levels entirely. Apart from my physical weakness, anything could have contributed to the transition – blood loss meant my body was slowly but surely shutting down, but I recall there were also physical responses based on my emotional state. I… I recall feeling panic, fear… Sorrow. Especially sorrow, I recall – I kept thinking how unfair it all was, dying like that in a ruin after all my years of running. I have no doubt my body mirrored these emotions with physical responses. Unfortunately, I took to linguistics and history more than biology or science, so… I am afraid I cannot clarify anything more than 'erratic heartbeat' and 'irregular breathing'.'_

"_Emotions…_" Furia seemed to ponder. "_You speak too much, and say too little,"_ she promptly summarised sourly. "_How will these plans work?"_

'…_Through being put into practice,'_ Garret admitted, rather reluctantly. '_While I have _some_ control over my emotions I can't elevate my heart rate at will. And the few things that can trigger such things _now_… well, I can't help but feel my reaction to them would be rather… detrimental, in this environment.'_

For but a moment, the battle-crazed spirit sharing his body remained silent. This silence, however, was not deafening in the least – had he not known better, had he not known that there was _some_ kind of fancy magical explanation for it, Garret would have sworn he could _feel_ the lady of battle thinking. "_I… will not pry,"_ Furia said finally, once more slightly subdued, almost… wary? "_These plans of yours… are disconcerting,"_ she admitted, however.

'_The idea of even being on the Fields of Justice is equally disconcerting,'_ Garret admitted, noticing his conversation with Furia, and the admission of the practical nature of his plans, did little to ease the hollow pit forming in his stomach. '_Especially now. It matters little, however – I may have spent my life _fleeing_ from it but I assure you I am quite used to danger, of all sorts.'_ He paused for a moment, resting his hands on the waist-high wall before him again. '_I am _trying_ to find a way, to devise some kind of plan or theory that will let us 'switch' before we encounter any great threats, but…' _He sighed, a gesture showing every ounce of frustration, trepidation and wariness he was currently feeling. '_The only solution I can think of now is putting it all into practice. I… I was overconfident in our initial progress, and now it seems I am about to reap what I have sown in that regard.'_

"_I do not approve of this,"_ Furia remarked, more grudgingly than anything else. "_This is a battlefield. The chances of you dying horribly are great."_

'_Well…'_ Garret mused, shrugging in a silly manner. After denial came grudging acceptance, after all – at least, as far as he was involved. '_At the very least the death won't stick.'_

"_That does not placate me in the slightest,"_ his tenant replied sourly. "_Can you think of _nothing_ else?"_

'…_No,'_ the scholar replied, a bitter taste in his mouth. '_Our transitioning… It appears it encompasses more elements than we originally thought it would – too many to dot down and decipher in one sitting. I theorised that we'd make more initial progress due to the fact that we have already transitioned once, and I even factored in the lack of that suppressant chain. I based all my possible plans off the chance that we would make more progress initially, that I would have more to _work_ with, but…'_ He trailed off. He snorted softly at the unfairness of it all. '_It seems I was wrong – which means we're flying blind here.'_

"_I do not like that alluding tone,"_ Furia responded warily. "_What do you mean?"_

'_It means that we should prepare for more than one sitting,'_ Garret responded lowly. '_Trial and error is the only way I can see for us to go now.'_

"_Trial and error?"_ Furia parroted, and for but a moment Garret swore all the eagerness for battle in her voice had all but dissipated. "_What, do you intend to rush in and die until we find a solution?"_

'_I do not intend to die at all,'_ Garret responded, standing upright. His gaze slowly drifted across the ocean of mist before him. '_As things stand I am banking more money on emotion being the trigger. I have been pursued before – there's a remarkable likeness between being chased by someone intending to reduce you to a near-corpse and… well, actually being reduced to a near-corpse. With any luck, said pursuit should trigger some emotional similarities. Then… Then we see if it works or not.'_

"_And if it does not?" _the battle-crazed spirit inquired.

'_We… will cross that bridge when we reach it,'_ Garret responded, folding his arms behind his back and slowly backing away from the wall.

"_If… If you believe that is best…"_ Furia spoke, struggling with her words. It was obvious she wasn't too keen on seeing her new 'anchor' to the physical world dying anytime soon. "_Then I will not argue."_

Garret nodded in response. There was a degree of bitter-sweetness in their mutual agreement – the fact that his own error was running amok with his tenant's emotions and outlook left a rather bitter taste in his mouth. Their advantage was shot right to hell as well – exploring a bit ahead of time and learning the terrain of the battlefield meant _nothing_ if they could not transition so Furia could _utilise _it. He cringed inwardly – that old Summoner purposely sent him in ahead of time so he could gain a bit of an advantage, something to make the match a bit _easier_. Now it was going to waste.

It seemed irony's knife had a very jagged edge.

Any further thought was interrupted as the altar behind him exploded into light and life again. A pillar of glowing magic pierced the darkened skies above, basking the small camp in its arcane glow, and once more a plethora of different winds buffeted the scholar where he stood. Such theatrics, it seemed, were par for the course when it involved summonings. '_It would seem our allies have arrived,'_ Garret thought morosely.

"_What will you tell them?"_ Furia inquired.

'_The truth,'_ the scholar responded. Despite all the hesitation and trepidation he was currently feeling, he'd opted to go with honesty as far as the Institute of War and its Champions were involved. After all, over the past thirteen years he'd lied enough to last him two lifetimes. '_The old Summoner _did_ say the team was restructured – maybe they know about our connection… If so, they might understand our predicament as well.'_

As if on cue, the magics died down – the pillar of light dissipated in a final great gust, and soon the shadows set in again. The dark clouds above became undistinguishable from each other, and the small camp returned to is lifeless, ominous state of inactivity.

Then, with a loud, almost _gleeful_ screech, a large Demacian eagle took flight, soaring into the skyline.

'_Oh, no,'_ Garret cringed, the hollow pit in his stomach expanding to such an extent the mere backlash from it made him feel dizzy. One hand covered his face, and he released a soft, almost _pained_ groan. '_Of all the people they could have chosen…'_

"_I recognise that bird…"_ Furia spoke up, her tone one of curiosity and perplexity.

'_You should,'_ the scholar responded glibly, still hiding his face behind his hand. '_It was quite eager to gouge Jax's eyes out back in the ruin.'_

"_Indeed. I trust it knows restraint,"_ Furia spoke up, more nonchalant than anything after recognition did its work. "_If not I have no qualms with feeding it to our opponents."_

'_Furia, no,'_ Garret responded, although the objection lacked any resoluteness or spirit. If anything it sounded almost resigned. '_Lady Quinn and her eagle are… well, they're a team. As such both of them are our allies.'_

"_Preposterous,"_ the spirit responded, sounding offended. "_I will not treat a _beast_ as my equal."_

_That_, at the very least, offered Garret a peculiar bit of insight into Furia's skewed versions of morality and honour. It coincided rather well with some of the more ancient texts and murals he'd deciphered, depicting humans utilising animals for food, legwork, labour… and little else, _especially_ not as a 'partner' in combat. The scholar ventured Furia must have lived in such a time – and thusly, it proved the battle-crazed woman was, indeed, ancient.

'_I am not asking you to,'_ Garret spoke, his voice regaining just a bit of the life it had lost upon realising that the Demacian Ranger he'd pulled a gun on was going to be fighting alongside him. '_However, I _must_ emphasise something – transition or not, we are still part of a team when we step onto the Fields of Justice. _That_ is something I know to be absolute. So please, Furia – I am not asking you to view them as equals. I am merely asking that you work with them.'_

"_I suppose I can oblige,"_ the she-spirit intoned. "_After all… The glimpses I was offered in the ruin showed me the falconer is quite skilled."_

'_That does not even _begin_ to describe it,'_ Garret responded. Still, his hand remained placed over his face, and not even the tell-tale sounds of footsteps coming down the stone stairs could make him move it – not yet. In a way, he harboured the futile hope that some way, somehow, keeping his face hidden could just make him sink into the earth and disappear. The footsteps were precise – controlled and even, and deathly soft. The scholar was rather certain they would be near-silent if the dead area around them didn't cause even the slightest sound to echo.

"…Garret?!"

The Ranger's voice sounded roughly the same as he remembered it from the ruin. A tad softer, _smoother_, maybe, but that was due to the lack of cavern walls for her voice to echo off. Nonetheless, even that change could not mask the shock, confusion and the barest, _barest_ hint of outrage present in the falconer's tone. Going simply by vocal indications, Garret assumed that the ranger was _not_ notified of who she would be fighting alongside. Apparently she'd been kept in the dark.

The scholar found he couldn't quite blame the Institute for that.

With an almost inaudible sound of resignation, Garret removed the palm from his face and turned his attention to the stone steps. True to form, Quinn stood there, clad in the same garb she'd been wearing when she had so tirelessly pursued him through the ruin near the Serpentine River. Even in the Treeline's perpetual murky darkness, her face was still very easy to see – and the emotions showcased on it, even more so. "Lady Quinn," he addressed her, hoping to the high heavens his voice did not betray just how paranoid and uncomfortable he had started to feel just now. "Well, er…" He fumbled with his words a bit, cursing the sudden knots his tongue formed. Quinn's gaze intensified, emphasising the confusion hidden there, and _still_ that bare hint of subtle outrage taunted him. It was all he could do not to shrink away under her stern gaze. "I… Well, this is… unexpected…"

"_That's_ an understatement," the Ranger responded, hopping off the last step and taking a few short yet dutiful strides towards the scholar. "What are you even – I don't even know where to start."

"You're not planning on harming me, are you?" Garret ventured, taking a tentative step back. "You know… for pulling a gun on you? I would… Well, you see, I cannot truly claim to _know_ you, and for all I know you might not be like, well, _that_ at all, but…" He rambled, once more fumbling with his words. "Had I been in your situation, well… I would be rather mad."

For but a moment, the expression of surprise on Quinn's face faded away, replaced by momentary shock – if only for a fraction of a second – before her brow furrowed into a frown. She opened her mouth, primed to speak, or reprimand, or perhaps even argue the point, before snapping shut abruptly with an audible click. For a moment longer her stern gaze lingered on him, before she finally found her voice. "My targets have done worse than pull a gun on me," she said, her voice a mixture of stern assertion and fatigued resignation. "I've learned not to take things too personally. But if I'm going to be _mad_ about anything, Garret, it's because you decided to be _stubborn_ when your life was on the line!"

The scholar warily took another step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. It seemed as though he'd managed to push one of her buttons despite his best efforts to avoid doing so. "Well, you see," he started, his mind turning blank, apart from a soft chuckle, no doubt from his spiritual tenant. "Well, I _had_ been shot, after all, and, well, last I made the effort to do any research on the subject, er, buckshot didn't exactly work wonders in promoting… certain diplomatic thought processes." He would be the first to admit he was grasping at straws here – his defense was starting to sound flimsier by the minute, even to his own ears. "I… was not in my right mind," he summarised.

"Evidently not," Quinn agreed, her ire not residing in the slightest. "You even refused treatment! Dammit, Garret… Things could have turned out _so _much differently if Jax hadn't shown up. You could have _died_," she stressed. "What… What were you even thinking?"

For but a moment, the scholar paused, pondering the question. He had no doubt he could concoct a somewhat convincing little cloak-and-dagger tale to throw her off his back, but… it became evident no lie he could fabricate could ease the tension between himself and his former pursuer. With gritted teeth he decided that it was better to be honest – a solution he found himself turning towards quite frequently nowadays.

"…My brother was… well, he was one of you. A Ranger," Garret spoke, his voice dropping in terms of volume and conviction. "Sometimes he'd come home, all angry and depressed, and, well… He would talk. I…" He trailed off. "I know what happens to people apprehended by the Rangers. It is… not always pleasant."

Quinn seemed ready to rebuke him the moment he had started speaking – but somehow, some way, the mention of his brother seemed to pluck her from her bout of irate scolding. Her mouth closed again, slowly this time, and she averted her eyes, at least a bit. The scholar, remarkably, picked up on this. "You… You know, I take it? About my family?"

"I do," Quinn said, nodding. It seemed she had calmed down, if only just a touch – her voice still held remnants of spice, but at the very least, she wasn't being confronting anymore. "Captain Crownguard put the puzzle together. He noticed one of your brothers' name from the Vanguard's records. After that, well… A lot of the higher-ups involved in your pardon know your story now."

"I thought they would," Garret said, lowering his guard somewhat. "The High Councillor told me the Captain would be present for my judgement." He let the words linger somewhat, wrestling with himself to find a way to steer the conversation away from the old wound. "Nonetheless," he said suddenly, a tad firmer than when he spoke moments earlier, "right mind or no, I… I realise I was wrong to reach for a weapon. You were… just doing your job, after all. For what it is worth, I am sorry – for complicating your assignment."

Once more, surprisingly, the scholar managed to throw the Ranger for a loop. What once was a frown turned into an expression of sudden shock, before it furrowed again into a frustrated, less threatening scowl. "Just… Ugh. You didn't complicate it that much," Quinn relented, shaking her head. "It was nothing I couldn't handle. Jax, however… was not."

"I get the feeling Jax complicates everything he gets involved in," Garret said glibly, chancing a smile.

"I had a broken arm that could testify to that," Quinn mumbled in response, but the makings of a wry grin were there, tugging at the corners of her lips. She sobered up suddenly. "What are you even doing here, Garret? Are _you_ the new Champion I was told about?"

"Me? Heavens, no," Garret shook his head, almost violently. Then he rose his mangled arm – which, Quinn seemed to notice with no small amount of wariness, was missing the suppressant chain it was usually adorned with – and pointed to it. "She is," he said plainly.

"'_She_'? What do you – What does that even _mean_?" Quinn asked, confusion overwhelming every other emotion her voice could possibly display.

"Well…" Garret started, averting his gaze. "It is quite an interesting story. A touch morbid, maybe, surely, but still, I think it is quite a story indeed. It is just… Well, it is a very, very _long_ story, and I fear we might not have the time to get everything straightened out and summarised, as it stands."

As if to prove his point, as if fate itself responded to the mortal soul who had dared to tempt it, the altar at the far end of the camp _exploded_ into life and light once more. The dark clouds above were torn asunder by a wave of brightness and once more the scholar felt the tails of his coat whipping up behind him. He chanced a glance towards the Ranger and saw her clasping down her little helm-like-contraption with one hand. The way the feather-like decorations on her uniform ruffled and bunched up, making her seem like an angry bird puffing up its feathers, was rather comical – he was certain the sight would have caused him a chuckle or two if the situation were not so awkward.

Then, the tempest died down – and their third ally voiced his presence with a type of gung-ho grandeur that could only belong to _one_ person.

"Well, ain't _this_ cozy?"

Garret saw Quinn's hand flex as though it were only a _natural_ reflex, and a sheen of annoyance, frustration and something that seemed a lot like despair flashed across her hazel eyes. The energy seemed to _seep_ from her form as she cast her gaze upwards, at the small wall surrounding the altar and the ever-arrogant, ever-confident figure perched atop it. Recognition and no small amount of relief brought a smile to the scholar's face as ever-defining purple garb fluttered in the slight breeze above, and six blue-hued lenses gazed down at them in amusement.

"Jax?" Garret addressed the self-proclaimed 'Champ' above them. "You're our third ally?"

"'Course!" The Grandmaster acknowledged as he leapt from the wall, landing before the scholar and the Ranger with a barely-audible tap. "What, you think I'd trust _her_ with lookin' out for your neck? No offense, Chickadee," he said, effectively silencing the Ranger before she could even respond to his vocal declaration of distrust. "Trust me, the folks who're gonna come after you here are _bad shit_. One little girl with a chicken and a peashooter ain't gonna do much. Thus, The Champ is here."

"Eagle," Quinn ground out. "Valor is an _eagle_-"

"Eh, still squawks like a chick when he eats lamppost," Jax shrugged her interjection off as though it meant nothing – which, in Garret's experience, it likely did, in the Grandmaster's own opinion. "Anyway, the match is gonna be starting soon. You and your little spirit-lady-friend get things sorted out?" He asked. "On that note, have you told Chickadee everything?"

"'Spirit-lady-friend?'" Quinn parroted, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Wait, wait, are you referring to the thing that tried to kill us in that ruin?"

"Yup," Jax answered eloquently, before Garret even had the chance to further explain. "Poet Boy here gets all talky sometimes so I'll dumb it down for ya: That crazy bitch in his arm is his new friend and _this_," he motioned to the battleground around them, "was organised so they could try switching. Now _before you ask_," Jax said, jutting his lamppost in Quinn direction when it seemed as though the Ranger was going to interrupt, "she's cool. Well, not exactly 'cool' but she ain't trying to possess Poet Boy here so Poet Boy in turn decided to let the crazy bitch vent, by using the Fields of Justice – because insane as he is, he's a real swell guy like that."

The urge to press his palm against his face returned with vengeance in mind, Garret noticed. True, there wasn't exactly anything _wrong_ with Jax summary of the situation, per say – well, apart from that 'insane' bit, he took exception to that – but there wasn't exactly anything _right_ about it either. '_Jax…'_ He groaned inwardly. '_…why?'_

"_Why what, Garret?"_ He received the response from his tenant. She seemed oddly amused. "_I see no flaws with that statement."_

Ignoring Furia's input, Garret dared to sneak a glance at the Ranger beside him. Perplexity was the name of the emotion and Quinn's face displayed it in full force – it seemed even those participating in a glorified gladiator's arena filled with warriors, mages, archers and gunmen (and even rampant spirits, by the Judicator's admission) could be surprised. Tentatively, she turned to face him, her expression the epitome of confused expectance. "Is that… Is that true?"

"Most of it, yes," Garret admitted, slumping slightly. "Though not the part of me being… well, mentally challenged. You just… Well, I'd say you just heard the bare-bones edition. The truth of the matter goes much deeper."

Her mouth opened then, primed and ready to fire off a sharp-tongued retort, he reckoned, only for her jaw to snap shut once again with an audible _click_. She inhaled deeply, then, as if steeling herself. "How, then?" She asked simply. "How do you intend to 'let her vent'? And can she even be trusted?"

"_I ask the same question of her,"_ Garret heard Furia respond. "_Is she not one of your hometown's agents? Her loyalty should be obvious. Take caution,"_ she said firmly.

"_I _trust her," Garret announced, his voice firm – much firmer than it was previously. "We reached a compromise, and she honoured her end of the bargain. This," he motioned to the dark clouds and twisted trees around them, "is my way of upholding my end. I'm looking for a way for us to switch – like what happened in the ruin. I get my peace of mind; she gets her trysts in combat or battle. It is not ideal, I admit, but it is… better than the alternatives."

"Speaking of," Jax spoke up, "I heard you got booted into the Treeline earlier than usual. How's your progress?"

Garret hoped, hoped to the _highest_ of heavens, that his two allies had not picked up on the way he blanched at that question – alas, going by Quinn's sudden look of intrigue and slight worry, and the sound _clunk _that followed Jax's palm smacking into his helm, it seemed fate was not intending to be kind to him. "We… have made minimal progress," Garret said, somewhat sullen. "Actually… We have made no progress at all. I was overconfident in our ability – I assumed too much, and now…"

"Now it's biting you in the ass," Jax summed up, removing his palm from his helm. "Well, it's no biggie. This is a practice match, after all. I also know you by now – you're a smart guy. You've got plans, don't you?"

"I do," Garret admitted, hoping he could somehow lock the sheepishness out of his voice. "I do not necessarily agree with them – heavens know Furia doesn't either – but as things stand they are my- no, _our_ best bets at achieving this." He paused for a moment, glancing around. "How long do we have until the match starts?"

"Couple 'o minutes," the Grandmaster responded.

"Okay then," Garret said, steeling himself. "Here's what I have deciphered so far…"

* * *

"So, that's it?" Jax asked, seemingly unimpressed. "Just get your heart pumping, lungs working, all that adrenaline-related shit? Bud, I dunno if I said this before or not, but the folks we're gonna be fighting are out for _blood_," he said. "I bet it'll take _one_ little run-in with one of them before your whole 'emotions' theory gets put to the test."

"And if that doesn't work?" Quinn interjected, sounding sceptical. "There's a major complication waiting on us if emotional state _isn't_ the trigger for their little transition."

"What's complicated?" Jax retorted. "Sit back, let the baddies smack him around a bit until that crazy bitch in his arm gets mad, and boom. She comes out, we go in, all the enemies die, and we win. Simple. 'Demacia!' and all that shit."

"_Garret,"_ Furia chose this time to speak up. "_That man is becoming less endearing with every word he speaks."_

'_That, er… Pay no mind to it,'_ the scholar responded inwardly. '_That's just how Jax is. See it so: He is not eager to see me harmed – he is merely confident in my plans.'_ He turned his attention to his allies, then. "While I am not exactly eager to put _that_ particular plan into action," he said warily, "I am not so foolish as to ignore the fact that it recreates the conditions of the ruin near perfectly."

"He's got a point, Chickadee," Jax threw in his two cents, bracing his lamppost over a shoulder. "I mean come on. If he could survive all _that_ I'm pretty damn sure he can survive a bout or five on the Fields of Justice. Hell, he might even die less than you do, on a regular basis!" This last comment, Garret noticed, earned Jax a glare from the Ranger that could be described as nothing less than _arctic_ – and yet still, the self-proclaimed Champ remained unfazed. Offhandedly the scholar wondered just _how_ he did that. "Hey, ya know what? The way I see it – Poet Boy here's very good at running. If all else fails he can just bait our enemies to me and I'll take care of the rest."

"You mean 'us', right?" Quinn interjected. "And 'we'?"

"Nah, I mean 'me' and 'I'," Jax brushed her off. "Don't need your chicken shitting on me because a Yordle scared it." Then he turned to face Garret, speaking before the Ranger could even think to voice her outrage at the not-so-veiled insult towards her 'partner'. "Listen, bud, I mean it when I say I'm here for a reason. Now I'm sure your little lady-friend in your arm is as capable as you say she is and hell, I'm pretty sure Chickadee here _doesn't_ fuck up as royally as she did in the ruins on a daily basis," he said matter-of-factly, once again ignoring the strangled cry of outrage he managed to elicit from Quinn. "But if you and that crazy bitch can't trade places? This is going to be a very uneven fight – so don't focus on fighting or helping out if the shit hits the fan. _You_ need to find a way to make your little magic trick work – and that's why _I'm_ here; to buy you the time to do it."

Garret, to his credit, nodded resolutely the moment Jax had finished speaking. "I had that concept in mind since the beginning," he answered truthfully, likewise trying his best to ignore the dip in air temperature that Quinn's glare was causing. "It… It was the implementation that had me hesitating a bit."

"Relax, bud," Jax said heartily, waving off his concern. "That's why we're here. We're with ya every step o' the way. Ain't that right, Chickadee?" He said, his voice inflating somewhat as he turned to face the Ranger as he finished speaking. Quinn's glare still seemed as though it could thaw true ice, although the expression of anger lasted a fleeting moment before she sighed in a resigned manner, her shoulders slumping somewhat as she managed to put the entirety of the rather unsavoury conversation behind her.

"He's right," she admitted, in a surprisingly docile tone of voice. "I can also see why we were chosen," she admitted. "We were there, after all. We know how that…" She trailed off. "Well, we know how your friend fights."

"_As I know how she fights,"_ Furia responded in kind – and for but the _briefest_ of moments, Garret felt a pang of anticipation, the ever-familiar buzz of excitement, thrumming in the pit of his stomach, before fading away completely; so quickly he had no choice but to pass it off as his imagination. "_I look forward to meeting her in battle – her, and that loathsome beast."_

"We should prepare," Quinn said suddenly, her head whipping around, towards the stone staircases that led into the damp, murky undergrowth of the twisted forest before them. "The battle will start any moment now, and if our enemies are going to be as riled up as Jax says, we need to capitalise on a head start – get the jump on them, so to speak," she said, strolling over to a dusty patch of dirt near the first staircase. "Garret, come here a sec – I need to show you something."

"Bossy, ain't she?" Jax pondered aloud, loud enough for the Ranger to hear him, and once again Garret was left to wonder whether Jax was just blissfully oblivious, unfalteringly lackadaisical, or just downright spiteful. "Best go see what she wants. Prolly it's got to do with that giant chicken she's got roaming the skies."

Acknowledging the advice with the barest of nods, Garret strode forwards. Quinn had lowered herself down, now kneeling next to the dusty pile of earth. He noticed she was drawing several figures into the dirt with two gloved fingers, her other hand clutching her trusty crossbow. "Keep your eyes on the sky," she advised him as she continued sketching the odd figures. "Valor will signal if he spots an enemy – these are his flight patterns in case he does. They are 'Mage', 'Warrior', 'Ranged' and 'Assassin' in kind. Knowing is half the battle – if you know what's close, you can prepare for it." She paused. "Although I don't think I should be telling you this. That trap with the dead rabbits and the wolves was… ingenious."

"Many thanks," Garret said with a smile. "So… Mage, Warrior, Ranged and Assassin. Understood."

"You sure?" The Ranger asked, her brow just _slightly_ raised.

"My memory is quite sturdy," the scholar answered. "These will be rather easy to recall. My chief concern now is not _having_ a line of sight at all. Those trees look as though they can be quite obscuring – even if their branches are a bit bare."

"You've been on the run a long time, haven't you?" Quinn asked. "You're smart – I think you know how to deduce intent regarding an animal's cry. Listen for Valor, if you can't see him – see if you can read intent from his shrieks. That should make this easier as well."

"I can do that, yes," Garret nodded, glancing at the figures in the dirt one last time before straightening out. "I'm no 'lord of the wild', true, but I think what you suggest is within my capabilities. I… well, thank you, Lady Quinn," he said earnestly. "This gesture is… well, I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it," the Ranger responded, rising to her feet. "And please," she said, somewhat strained. "Drop the 'Lady' part? I'm just a Ranger. Just Quinn is fine. There's no need to be so formal."

The scholar, surprisingly, acquiesced without further argument. "I… As you wish, Quinn," he said, with a slight tug at the corners of his lips.

"All done?" The two were interrupted by the usual bombastic voice of Jax, who came strolling over as though he was about to engage in a lovely walk through a park rather than a battle on a hellishly twisted battleground. "Flight patterns and warnings, huh?" He observed, glancing at the figures on the ground. "Heh. Your chicken might be helpful after all," he said, starting to descend down the arcing stairs.

"Aren't you going to memorise them too?" Quinn called out.

"Don't need 'em," the Grandmaster casually replied, stopping at the last step. "Thing about your bird is, he can't see what's under the trees, can he? I think I'll trust my own eyes on this one."

Any chance of a reply – be it grudging agreement from a timid scholar or barely-veiled irritation from a headstrong Demacian Ranger – was outright obliterated by a downright _raucous_ roar that echoed across the twisted landscape beneath them. It was a hollow, drawn-out yet utterly voluminous bellow, the type which echoed in the ears of those who heard it for many, many minutes afterwards. Garret fought against the instinct to cover his ears, knowing full well it would be futile despite his body's natural reflex. His mind quickly matched the bellowing roar to a source – he recognised it as a type of battle trumpet, albeit one with a much deeper, much _louder_ report. That was the kind of soundwave that would wreak havoc on one's ears regardless of how much they tried to block it out.

Thankfully, the grating drone of the battle-horn soon died down, and when the scholar turned his attention back to the camp, he witnessed a display nothing short of _magnificent_. The dull, almost _dead_ crystal he had observed upon entering the Treeline had suddenly flared to life, bathing the camp in an almost ethereal violet glow. The chunk of arcane crystal itself slowly spun in place as it rotated, and the runic engravings on the structure it was perched on had _shimmered _to life in a spectacular display of colours matching the greater crystal. Even to his own mundane senses this structure _radiated_ magical energy.

"That's our Nexus," Jax helpfully supplied. "Two o' those puppies keep the battle going. Without two, there's not enough fancy magicy shit to keep the Treeline sustained, and the fight ends. So if we wanna win, we gotta trash the enemy's Nexus before they can trash ours. Bonus points if we kick massive amounts of ass while doing so."

"_That sounds… quite fair,"_ Furia mused in Garret's mindscape, and once more the scholar felt that ever-familiar pang of excitement, for a moment so brief he would have paid no mind to it – had this not been the _second_ time he had felt it.

'_Furia,'_ he addressed his tenant, keeping track of the banter that had suddenly broken out between Quinn and Jax. '_Are you… are you excited, by any chance?'_

"_I am, Garret,"_ the she-spirit responded, and this time, the scholar noticed the anticipation bubbling beneath her normally collected voice. "_What the alien one said… Our enemies will be out for _blood_… That mere notion excites me beyond words."_ She trailed off for a moment, before speaking up again. "_Garret, I might have a way to aid you."_

'_Oh?'_ This, Garret admitted, was an intriguing piece of news. He kept his gaze neutral at the sight before him – apparently Jax had said something that was making Quinn struggle _very hard_ to maintain a professional demeanour. '_What have you found?'_

"_A… A compromise, as you might say. When I try to take over… You said something about a 'transition'. When I tried to attempt this earlier I was trying to _expand_ our common link. While this has proved rather fruitless, now that you have removed that damnable chain, I may be able to manipulate our tether. Hold out your hand, Garret."_

The scholar fought back a wave of wariness at this. Suddenly the notion of trust being more than just vocal slammed into him with all the mercy and benevolence of a Noxian siege engine, and once more that little ball of ice in the pit of his stomach grew, and expanded. The cowardly part of him, which he had managed to bury under lock and key since entering the Treeline, was hammering against the door, and the threat of that part breaking free was very, very real.

"_I assure you, Garret – I will not harm you. With all you are sacrificing, and shouldering for my sake… I would never harm you."_

This admission, surprisingly, ended up soothing some of the turmoil Garret felt. With a shaky inhalation, he steeled his nerves and raised his left hand – his _human_ hand. He was about to admonish himself for the admittedly instinctive gesture, but the almost _merry_ chuckle that suddenly floated in his mind made him reconsider that notion. Then he felt it – a feeling of almost comforting warmth enveloping him, seemingly travelling through his very veins as it encompassed him from head to toe. His vision tinted red, suddenly, and he noticed both Jax and Quinn were alert as could be, all pretence of teasing and outrage halted in the face of something threatening – and something very_, very _familiar.

It was at that point that Garret noticed the red was _not_ tinting his vision at all – rather, it was all around him, like a mantle of crimson smoke, the same ominous, cloudy vapour he had been surrounded by when he first made contact with his tenant. It was much thinner, he realised – more akin to a mist than actual smoke, and he noticed it was doing something different. Instead of the twisting, writhing motions the smoke had made in his mindscape, it was… simmering? Could smoke even simmer? The mist around him twitched and jerked, somehow becoming tenser, _tauter_, with every errant twitch. It shrank, then, condensing around his outstretched hand, curling around his arm and slowly wafting off it, hovering a few inches away and then returning to coil around the outstretched limb, like a snake.

Slowly, the mist moved down his arm, centring and _anchoring_ itself in his open palm and splaying outwards like a ball of fire. Fire, Garret noticed, was an apt descriptor – the mist intensified in his palm, turning to the same thick smoke Furia had hidden in during their encounter, and to his shock – and wonder – the smoke started _cracking_. The twisting, writhing motions suddenly returned as the smoke expanded, and _narrowed_, a good three-and-a-half feet long and narrow enough for him to wrap his fingers around. The smoke shrank once more around the area he gripped tightly – and all of a sudden, the smoke _flared_.

Red flashed white for but a mere moment…

…and then, Garret noticed, he stood with a perfectly forged crimson sword in his hand.

"_It worked,"_ Furia's voice reached him, all of its usual calmness and smoothness lost in the shakiness and increased pitch spurred by excitement and just barely contained _joy_. "_It worked…"_

"Holy shit." Jax was the first to voice his opinion of the scene. "Garret? You there, bud? Or is the crazy bitch in control now?"

"Wha…?" Garret shook his head, clearing away some of the stupor that had enveloped him. "Uh, no, no. I mean – It is – I'm still, well, _here_ but… I…" He sighed, his grip on the sword in his hand slackening. The tip dipped to the ground, impacting it with the expected sound of heavy steel impacting against rock, but at this point Garret noticed that, even in his normal hand, the sword was light as a _feather_. "I… I have no idea what happened now," he said honestly, raising the weapon in his hand to glance at it. It seemed both masterfully crafted and shockingly primitive at the same time – it very much fit the archetype of 'sharpened slab of steel with handle' befitting some of the older warriors in history; the blade even lacked a proper cross-guard.

"_Wonderful,"_ Furia mused from within Garret's mind. "_It is… It is better than I expected it to be. It might still shatter after a few uses but… I am very pleased with this. Now… Now I know I can arm you."_ The she-spirit sounded downright giddy. "_Now I know you will never be defenceless – not while I am with you."_ There was a subtle, _very_ subtle undertone of relief to her voice. "_Garret… There is one more thing I can try to do, to help you. However… it involves your mind, _our_ minds. I… I realise you may not be comfortable with such a thing, after… After what happened when you were confined to the sick-bed. If you do not wish it… then I will refrain."_

'…_No, no, it is…'_ Garret started, fumbling with his words. '_I… I have no reason to distrust you now,'_ he admitted, once again inspecting the sword held in his hand, marvelling at just how _light_ it was – as though it really were made of smoke and nothing else. At that moment, though, what Furia had offered came to the fore. He had expected something like what happened in the hospital wing – a flash of intent from the she-spirit in his arm, something that twisted and distorted his view of the world and spawned a knee-jerk reaction, a sort of _instinct_ within him.

What he received instead… was much different.

The world before him remained unchanged, and yet, it was as though reality threatened to fade away as sweet, sweet remembrance overtook him. His nose twitched slightly as his mind recalled, in perfect clarity, the scent of sulphur and burning wood mingling with an oddly sweet, metallic scent. He recalled a familiar weight in his hand, and he could almost _feel_ the leather-decked hilt of a blade or an axe clasped firmly in his hand. His mind's eye recalled dancing steel before him, glinting flourishes signalling a sword dancing around before him with practiced ease, a pseudo-ritual to 'break in a new blade', as his recollection told him.

Almost instinctively, his hand tightened around the hilt of the sword in his hand.

At first it was clumsy – something that could pass as a flourish in the eyes of a rookie, a child hoping to one day be a 'big man' and join the army or some-such. The blade itself nearly tumbled a few times, or it _would_ have if it actually weighed enough to make gravity kick in. The second time was a bit more refined – slow, much too slow to be of use in 'breaking a blade in', but there were no fumbles, no twitches or tumbles; while it was certainly not elegant, it wasn't a complete failure.

The third time was the charm – the sword danced before him in a pattern he vividly remembered, flashing and flickering as it spun and twirled in his hand. It was a near-perfect flourish, in all honesty –

\- and then Garret noticed, and _realised_, that a deadly weapon was flailing about in front of him, mere inches from his own person.

With a startled yet short yelp the scholar backpedalled as though the sword might animate itself and attack him – the weapon slipped from his grasp mid-flourish, and remained suspended in the air, slowly finishing the twirl it was performing as Garret stumbled back, as far away from the sword as possible. Fear-stricken eyes glanced first at the sword, then at his hand, and the scholar wondered just _what the hell_ had happened.

"Shit, bud…" Jax summarised. "That was… fancy?"

"I thought…" Quinn spoke up, her expression both wary and a tad confused. "I thought you said you'd never held a sword before?"

At first Garret could not answer. His mouth opened and closed futilely, no sound escaping. He took a moment to calm his erratic breathing, and to recompose himself, before answering. "I… I can… I don't…" He started, fumbling about like a drugged loon trying to sweet-talk the asylum orderlies. "I have not," he admitted, sounding disbelieving even of his own words. "I can honestly say I have not… never, actually… The… The largest blade I have ever held was a small, a small _knife_, not a sword…"

"Maybe not you," Jax intoned, "but I'll bet your lady-friend kicked a lot of ass in life. I'd reckon a little performance like that was, what, downtime amusement for her?" He paused. "So what does this mean? You guys can't 'swap' places, but… you can share shit?"

"It…" Garret's mouth went dry as he spoke, and still he kept his gaze locked on the primitive yet somehow sophisticated blade hovering before him. It was still twirling merrily in mid-air, seemingly oblivious to all the tension its creation had caused. It twitched and jerked every now and then, spontaneously spasming under the scholar's questioning gaze. He could not exactly deduce _why_ but it seemed as though this weapon was… waiting for him? It was one of the most alien things he had ever felt – here he stood, looking at a _sword_, a weapon he'd never held before, and yet he felt some semblance of attachment to it, some pang of sentimentality and companionship no sane man would reserve for something as simple and inanimate as a blade.

The blade twitched again, _violently_ this time, as if responding in outrage to the scholar's thoughts. Garret didn't know if he was the only one who felt it but he could have sworn the blade was _radiating_ emotion. Somewhat timidly, he raised his left hand again, palm open and fingers curled. The crimson blade before him halted its relaxed spin, hovering idly for but a _moment_ before shifting itself. It turned where it floated so the hilt was pointed straight at Garret's hand, and slowly, almost carefully, the blade floated towards the scholar. It was an almost mesmerising sight, seeing a sword move of its own volition to a most unlikely wielder. Soon it had reached its destination, and the clench of a fist was all that separated the weapon from the scholar.

Garret took yet another deep breath, and grabbed hold of the sword.

It seemed to _thrum_ under his touch, adjusting itself to him – the scholar felt the hilt shift, growing narrower and sleeker to fit a human hand untouched by the trials and pressures of a soldier's life. The blade first widened, then narrowed and sharpened, changing itself and almost adapting to its wielder's stature and strength. Almost…

Almost as though it were an extension of himself.

"Alright," Jax interjected, sounding miffed. "This is some Ionia-level bullshit going on here. Just what the hell just happened?"

"I… I have no idea," Garret responded, sounding every bit as shocked as his team appeared to be. It was both exhilarating and terrifying at once – he recalled holding a blade in the past, to such an extent that he could adequately describe _every tiny detail_ from the pommel decoration to the wear on the blade itself; and yet, he knew it was impossible. "It was… I can recall doing that in the past, but, but… It cannot be! I've never even used a sword before…"

"…_But I have,"_ Furia's voice filtered into his own thoughts again. "_I hoped to pass my knowledge down to you. I thought you could mirror my movements, and my skill, if you recalled it all as vividly as I do. Sadly, there is a complication."_

'_What kind of complication?'_ Garret asked her, somewhat wary of the response.

"_The superficial kind," _the lady of war responded. "_Easily remedied in time. However, in this battle, it will still act to our detriment. Yours is a body ill-suited for battle, Garret. It lacks the strength, and the agility and the swiftness I had in life."_

"Seeing as your eyes are going all freaky again," Jax interrupted them, "I'm going to bet your lady-friend just told you what the fuck is going on, eh?"

"It… It was her," Garret answered, coughing once to clear his throat and hopefully purge the underlying quiver threatening to plague it. "Her memories, to be precise. As it turns out, it seems we can share more than just a body."

"Well, that's…" Jax started, but trailed off. "Shit I dunno what to make of that."

"It's a reassurance," Quinn corrected him, although her voice held an edge of caution that betrayed her confidence in her statement. "A sword alone won't cut it against some of the people we fight against. If nothing else, that… Well, your new friend's knowledge can help you last a bit longer, at least until you figure out to trade places, so to speak."

"Also: baby steps," Jax intoned. "You can't switch places yet, but if you can use her fancy smoke tricks and actually learn a thing or two from her, hell, I'd say that's progress," he said, leaning against the railing of the stone steps. "You two might be closer to pulling a switcheroo than you think, bud."

"In any case," Quinn interjected, quickly darting down the stone steps and stopping a few paces into the dirty cobbled road. "The match has started. No doubt the other team has already embarked into the forest, and are on their way here. There are only two ways to go in the Treeline, after all," she said sternly. "I'll scout ahead. Keep your eyes and ears open – Valor will signal as soon as I find something. Or as soon as something finds me," she said, and for the briefest of moments Garret swore he could see her shoulders twitch slightly, as though she were shrugging. "Got it?"

"I… I understand, yes," Garret responded. In a way, the presence of someone capable of exerting some semblance of command was a major boon to his already fickle resolve. He was more than aware of the fact that it was one thing to _speak_ of entering the Fields of Justice on Furia's behalf, it was another thing _entirely_ to actually do it. Nonetheless, he offered Quinn an affirmative nod to accompany his own acknowledgement.

The Ranger nodded once, before turning around and sprinting ahead.

Jax took the opportunity _immediately_, and leaned forwards, scanning the Ranger's back as she went. He made a soft noise of approval, and stared on, seemingly content to watch her dash ahead into the Treeline. For a brief moment, Garret's more idealistic side wanted to believe that Jax was impressed by her hands-on approach towards the coming battle, an unseen affirmation after his earlier ridicule. Once Garret bothered to follow the Grandmaster's line of sight, however, he noticed Jax was, indeed, impressed by something of the Ranger – and it most certainly wasn't her approach to combat.

"_Jax!"_ He hissed, quickly averting his own eyes.

"What?" The Grandmaster asked, and turned his blue-tinted gaze towards the scholar, innocent as can be. "She might be lacking a cup or three but damned if she ain't got a nice ass. Ya see the shape? Chickadee's rocking that bubble butt, I tell you…"

Had he known Jax for a lesser amount of time, Garret would have voiced disapproval and disagreement at the act. Unfortunately, a bit less than two weeks was time enough for the scholar to learn that perversity was to Jax what grog was to Gragas. So, with no small amount of resignation, Garret, merely sighed and shrugged, and descended the stone staircase.

It was an odd feeling, if he were being completely honest – with every step he took it seemed the murkiness and cold in the undergrowth seemed to intensify, as though the very negativity in the dead forest was trying to rear up and loom over him like an actual threat. The mist which had been nipping at his knees and coiling around his feet seemed to bite into his flesh all of a sudden, and the bare, sinister trees suddenly seemed double their usual height. That icy feeling in the hollow pit of his stomach returned with wrath, seeping into his chest and lungs and trying its best to numb his legs, and in response, he could faintly hear his own pulse all of a sudden. He gulped audibly, immediately recognising the feeling that was trying to cripple him:

_Fear_.

When he reached the final step, he stopped dead. Standing up there, by the Nexus crystal, in the relative safety of what could be called a 'camp' had made it quite easy to discuss methods and theories and hypotheses. He had Furia to talk to – she helped keep his mind occupied after the visions of his deceased lover assailed him, and afterwards, the muted confrontation with Quinn and Jax's lively entrance had all but quenched the fear he initially felt at the prospect. Now, though… Now that he was one step away from a battleground, one step away from glorified _bloodsport _where three undoubtedly powerful warriors were out to kill him… Suddenly, cutting his losses and agreeing with the coward in him seemed not only like the easiest option – it was a few urges away from being labelled an _instinct_.

"_I know you fear, Garret,"_ he heard Furia speak, from the recesses of his mind. "_I know you doubt and hesitate. But know: I am with you."_

"You alright there, bud?" Jax's voice broke him out of his fear-stricken pause, and Garret noticed the Grandmaster was standing right next to him. The unique mask locked away any sign of facial expression, but the question itself was laden with small bits of concern, masked by the mercenary's usual bravado. "You know that chicken ain't just for warnings, right? That thing'll dive down to help out, no matter who we're facing."

"I… It seems I am not as brave as I thought I could be," Garret said shakily – but nonetheless, but a steeled resolve, he took the first step towards fulfilling his side of the bargain. The soggy earth gave a bit under his heel, but it held firm, and with a single, purposeful stride, he took his first step into the actual Twisted Treeline. "No matter," he said, a sliver of resolve leaking into his voice. "I gave my word, didn't I?"

"That's the spirit," Jax said with a nod, twirling his trusty lamppost in his fingers. "You ain't alone here either, bud," he said confidently as he strolled ahead. "Come on. Let's go kick some ass, huh? I bet your lady-friend is eager to tap some blood, eh?"

And with those words, the hollowness in his stomach subsided just a bit, and that ever-buzzing pang of excitement bloomed in his stomach. Garret knew it was not his own emotion, just as he knew the sword in his hand was not of his own making, but… In a way, those facts seemed to soothe him. It offered a modicum of warmth in the coldness of grim realisation, and _that_ was something he was all too thankful for.

As he strode forwards, following the Grandmaster's lead, Garret recalled a poem his father had adored in life – the order of words were lost on him, and the actual structure of the text had long since been forgotten. But there'd always been a part of that poem that fascinated him; an excerpt of bravery better suited to fairytales. It detailed a cavalry's charge against overwhelming odds, and how they so _boldly_ rode into the jaws of Death itself, and right through the gates of hell.

One soul within him snorted in derision – and considered himself sorely lacking in both the 'bold' part and the 'bravery'.

The other soul within him thought the young man couldn't be more wrong.

* * *

"So how do the Summoners work?" Garret asked as he and Jax trekked through the coiling undergrowth of the Treeline. It had turned out to be an absolutely hideous place, with ferns resembling tendrils of darkness and trees with bark and branches that seemed to form monstrous visages at the merest flicker of shadows.

"See, that part's up for debate," the Grandmaster replied, casually swatting aside a stray branch with his lamppost. "This place is a fuckin' shithole… Anyway, some folks say they can 'hear' the Summoners talking to them, almost like telepathy. I call bullshit on that – if that were true some folks in this place wouldn't make such stupid mistakes… and maybe that Laurent woman would actually take a hint," he spat. "Nah, personally, I relate it more to a certain type of instinct. A gut feeling you know ain't yours, if I can put it that way. Call 'em 'guardian angels' if you really want to. They're like your 'sixth sense' when you're on the Fields."

"Sixth sense, you say," Garret pondered, sidestepping a pool of dark mud he seriously did _not_ want to chance stepping in. "That might be complicated," he summarised. "With Furia always present and watching I might find it hard to differentiate between the two."

"Thought so," Jax replied, nodding as he swatted away another branch. "It shouldn't be too hard for ya, though. You and your lady-friend talk a lot; I've noticed. Your eyes are freaky so much nowadays it's hard to remember what they look like. The Summoners… well, I dunno how it's gonna be with you, but in my experience they don't talk much," he said. "'Sides, you're smart, ain't you? I'd bet you're used to the spirit-girl's yapping by now. So if you ever feel something, an instinct or a gut feeling, maybe, that _ain't_ because of her yapping, you know it's the Summoner at work. Easy."

Garret pondered the words in silence for a few moments. Jax, despite being a goofball, was prone to moments of surprising seriousness and savvy. At first they almost always caught him off guard – but now, he noticed, the self-proclaimed Champ could be surprisingly wise and deducting when the need arose. "Actually, I think that 'sixth sense' is kicking in right now," he spoke cautiously. "I've had this feeling we're heading towards Quinn's location, only… Only there is no way I can know that for sure. Furia can sense people around me, yes, but for some reason they need to be close by. Quinn…" He trailed off, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Quinn seems much farther out, but… I cannot help but be sure we are headed in the right direction."

"That's the Summoners at work, alright," Jax nodded. "Here's the Champ's first tip for ya: Never ignore that instinct. It's a vital part of the battles here," he said, before shrugging. "At least for people who ain't me."

They were interrupted at that precise moment – a shrill shriek from above cascaded downwards and rang in their ears, and the two friends glanced up at the overcast sky. They could see Valor there, in the distance, too far to make out any details but close enough for them to decipher the giant bird of prey's flight pattern. He was darting back and forth, looping and rolling in mid-flight, forming a haphazard figure-eight on the grey skyline. After repeating the figure a few times the eagle righted its course and flew off to the side, uttering another shriek.

"Did you…?" Garret asked.

"Yup," Jax nodded, gripping his weapon with both hands. "Mage, by the looks of it." He followed the eagle's path of flight with a keen, trained eye, and immediately predicted where the thing was flying. "Shit. That chicken's just gone and given the game away. Remind me to cook it later," he said sourly. "Our enemies ain't stupid – they saw that bird as clearly as we did, so whoever that mage is, he knows we're close. Either we go to him, or he comes to us – and no offence, but I'd rather not have a mage flinging snowballs and other fairy shit at you when you can't swap out with that crazy girl."

"You have a plan, then?" Garret asked, scanning his surroundings nervously. He had seen one or two mages during his travels and, mediocre as they were, their might still troubled him greatly. He did not want to imagine how powerful the mages fighting on the Fields of Justice were – even if he did have a sinking feeling he would soon find out, whether he consented or not.

"Yup," the Grandmaster replied flippantly. "As you said, Chickadee's real close. You're gonna keep going and meet up with her, and _I'm _going to go deal with that mage. Simple."

"Quite," Garret agreed. "This blade does not seem like the proper tool to defend against a mage's assault anyhow," he quietly intoned, raising the crimson sword up and scanning the blade quickly.

"_You are right to be cautious,"_ Furia remarked from within their shared consciousness. "_But do not view them as deities, Garret – even the most powerful of mages die like mortals."_

"So that's the plan," Jax summarised, snapping the scholar out of his reverie. "If you hear a fight breaking out, don't come running, bud. You can't figure out how your magic trick works if you keep dying, eh? Leave _that_ part to Chickadee," he said casually.

"Understood," Garret said, somewhat reluctantly. Despite his cowardly nature demanding that he bolt before Jax could even hear the "Thank you and good day," he would utter in such a case, it still felt somewhat underhanded to send a close friend off to go face someone who could bend the very elements to their will. Despite this, however, Garret was no fool – he was perfectly aware that he was a liability in his current state. All the flashes of memory and smoke-formed weapons in the world couldn't save him from people of Jax's calibre – at most such things would just delay the inevitable end. "Just be careful. Please."

"Pah," the self-proclaimed Champ shrugged the warning off. "That mage should be careful," he said confidently, venturing off the beaten path they were traveling and stepping into the underbrush. "You just keep moving, bud," he said reassuringly, as the undergrowth swallowed more and more of him with every step he took. The purple grab he adorned himself with was darkening by the minute. "I'll meet up with you guys soon."

And almost the moment he finished speaking, the darkness of the Treeline swallowed Jax completely.

For a fleeting moment Garret pondered going after him, against his better judgement and his survival instinct. The various snarls and howls coming from around him, coupled with the demonic faces formed by tree bark and rock formations, convinced him otherwise – it was better to stay where there was a semblance of light to lead his way.

Besides – Jax was Jax. He was called 'Grandmaster' for a reason, after all.

Chancing a last glance at the direction Jax disappeared into, Garret exhaled shakily and turned back to the beaten path, breaking into a brisk stride as he went. Quinn was close by, he could tell, somehow. She was moving, that much was certain – the only variable was how _fast_ she was moving. That alone motivated him enough to make his small journey towards her as quickly as possible.

After all, it would be nothing short of catastrophic if he encountered an enemy on his own.

* * *

Thinking back, he really shouldn't have jumped on board so eagerly when he'd been approached with the offer.

The problem didn't lie with his team – how could it? _He_ was there, after all, and he was The Champ; any team with him in the roster was a force to be reckoned with, after all. His buddy Garret was there too. Granted, Poet Boy wasn't much of a fighter – wasn't much of a mage either – but that crazy woman living in his arm? Hell, if Garret could find a way to let her out for even a _minute_ at a time it'd cover that handicap completely. Even if the bitch wasn't as skilled as Garret reported she was, at the very least there'd be no shortage of weapons with all that red smoke. Hell, Chickadee's presence even meant they had a perfectly good meat shield if shit went south too quickly.

All in all, this was one of the more _coherent_ teams the Grandmaster at arms had been a part of.

No, The Champ's problem was less with the people and more with the _locale_.

Bluntly put: the Twisted Treeline was a complete shithole.

It was one of the few places in Valoran that the Grandmaster at Arms could safely say he hated – in fact, it ranked right up there with the slums of Noxus, the Winter's Claw territory way up in the Freljord, and pretty much anywhere within a thousand feet of that Laurent bitch. It was often said that the Treeline was 'carved from a part of the Shadow Isles', or some such flowery, fruity poetic bullshit that basically meant it was a shithole made from shit from a bigger shithole. It seemed designed to try and choke the life and light out of everyone who stepped into it – even the damn animals the Institute had placed in the wilderness were simply constructs of a magical nature, because even the stupid _real_ animals were clever enough to stay the fuck away.

Nature itself in the Treeline seemed to mirror just how ominous, malicious and gloomy the place was. As Jax strode towards the area that damn chicken had signalled, he even developed a little game to play with himself – after every blink, he quickly identified the first thing in his field of view that stood out the most. He even spiced it up by identifying things _other_ than trees. There was a rock that looked as though a man's screaming face was etched into it, and there was a fallen trunk covered with moss – kinda looked like a baby's crib in Winter's Claw territory at that. There was a bush littered with purple and green berries which were likely to inflict horrible, painful, yet slow death upon anyone who ate them. There stood the Fallen Angel, sneering at him as she took a step back and flexed her claws, her pale complexion shining under a ray of moonlight, and there was –

Wait.

Fallen Angel?

…Bah. Like he gave a shit.

There was a pile of dirt of that looked suspiciously _not_ like dirt, and there was a tree that kinda resembled Vessaria's face. He stopped then, his gaze fixed on the tree. Truly, the resemblance was uncanny – he made a mental note to ask the High Councillor if she had a hot sister that was turned into a tree sometime in the past.

Then he stepped to the side, twisting his torso to the side, and casually dodged the smouldering bolt of binding black magic that had been fired at his back. It pulsated and bubbled as it flew past him, barely even scorching a single thread of his (admittedly awesome) little cape, and impacted against the tree he had been admiring seconds earlier. Bark snapped and splintered and wood charred and burned under the unholy assailment, and suddenly, that face didn't resemble the High Councillor so much anymore.

"You should be more aware of your surroundings," the Fallen Angel called from where she had attacked him. Her voice was one of the few similarities she shared with her sister Kayle, but Morgana's always packed that fierce, violent undertone. In The Champ's own humble and honest opinion, it was both arousing and creepy. Mostly creepy, though. "I expected more from the Grandmaster at Arms," she said darkly, her white eyes narrowed in a frown. Her mangled winged twitched in irritation – yet another trait she shared with her sister.

"Oh, I'm aware, babe," Jax responded flippantly, bracing his lamppost across his shoulders and kicking at dirt with his right foot. "I just thought you were part of the scenery, is all." Once more, he dodged to the side as another glob of binding magic seared towards him. He didn't break his stance – his lamppost remained perched on his shoulders, and apart from a slight twist of the midsection, his upper body barely shifted. "Alright, alright, I give," he relented, shaking his head exasperatedly. "I lied," he spoke, a lie in and of itself. "I was actually thinking 'bout your sister."

This time, at least, her assault made him put some effort into it. Immediately Jax leapt back, just as the soil beneath him _warped_ and twisted into an unholy mass of unnatural gunk. It bubbled and boiled as tiny pieces of debris outright turned to dust in the tainted earth's muddy confines, and even the fallen tree trunk it touched spouted a lick of dark purple flame at the contact. No sooner had he landed when he had to dodge to the side again, seeing a _volley_ of snaring bolts barrelling towards him. His lamppost spun above him in a graceful flourish as the first bolt speared past him without a hint of contact, and he danced to the side and dipped low as the second barely grazed the blue tousle on his hood.

The third was dead centre – an underhanded shot capitalising on his immobility after dodging the first two sporadic shots. Had his mouth been visible, the Grandmaster's smirk would be clear as day – true, this tactic might fool others; but it wouldn't fool The Champ. The lamp topping the post _blazed_ to light as he swung it, spreading smoke and cinders into the mist around him, and with an audible _thud_ it collided with the bolt of darkness before him. With a flick of the wrist and a twitch of the shoulder, the lamppost jerked to side, and the third bolt of magic missed – sent flying off course by a simple brass lamppost.

"What the hell, woman?" He asked, straightening out and spreading his arms out and _revelling _in the look of pure shock and outrage adorning the Fallen Angel's gothic features. "Can't a man imagine what's under that fancy armour?" He asked, before pointing his lamppost at Morgana's exposed pale flesh. "My mind tells me it looks better than _that_, in any case."

With a frustrated scream, the Fallen Angel loosed another volley of black magic blasts at the Grandmaster. Her clawed fingers arced around her own arcane energies and flung her attacks with abandon – and her anger just kept mounting when she saw the Grandmaster dodge or parry _each and every one_. "_Mind your tongue!"_ she hissed, flinging her final orb – one which was sent flying into the sky by a simple twirl from Jax's lamppost. "Or mark my words, I will show you a _world of pain!_"

Jax let the words linger for the _briefest_ of moments before responding.

"_Awesome,"_ he said. "I'm _always_ down for hate sex."

The Fallen Angel's outrage peaked at this comment. Her lips split into a fierce snarl, her eyes twitched erratically, her breathing became ragged and shaky and her decaying wings outright_ spasmed_, and with a furious roar she attacked. Dark magic _bloomed_ around her; tendrils of indigo snaked around her arms and fingers and the very earth beneath her feet twisted and contorted, swallowing up the Treeline's soil in its blighted spread outwards. With a final screech of rage she flung her magic outwards, resulting in yet another volley of bolts flying outwards. "I will _end you!_"

Three of the erratically aimed bolts managed to barrel in the Grandmaster's general direction, and of those, all three missed their mark, joining the rest of the volley as dark magic tore the Treeline around the Grandmaster asunder. It was less of a calculated attack more of a blind bombardment, a knee-jerk reaction to mounting fury and frustration – and the execution of it testified to this. Finally the volley ended, and Morgana heaved a breath, glaring daggers and palpable hatred at the cloud of dust she had kicked up with her spontaneous bombardment. A slow clap slowly drifted through the settling chaos, a sound the made the Fallen Angel gnash her teeth with such strength the sound of it became audible.

The dust died down, settling onto the ruined earth before her, and yet, the Grandmaster stood unharmed – no worse for the wear.

"All done?" He asked casually, before gripping his lamppost and assuming a fighting stance. It was widely considered a very, very threatening gesture when Jax did such a thing – and despite the look of outrage on Morgana's face, a slight undertone of worry slowly dawned on her features. Once again, the lamp atop the post flared to life, and its light danced across the Grandmaster's dark garb. The six blue lenses of his helm seemed to shine just a little bit brighter – and a little bit more ominously.

"Good," he said, satisfied. "Now it's my turn!"

* * *

Garret flinched as the sounds of battle erupted in the distance. As far off as it had sounded he could identify a multitude of different sounds emanating from the impromptu warzone – trees snapped and shattered, rocks cracked and exploded, and there the _faintest_ of sizzling sounds underlying it all. Suddenly the brawl sounded a lot closer than it was in reality – and the scholar quickly realized that, while Jax was perfectly capable of smashing trees up with that lamppost, he could not do so in such quick succession.

That meant the explosions were the mage's doing – and going by the sheer volume, it seemed as though he – or she – was geared to annihilate.

That fact alone was enough to make him hasten his travels – as things stood already, his knees and ankles protested at his brisk pace and offhandedly, he realised he was a small amount of speed away from actually _jogging_. Not that he paid much mind to that fact – his heart was hammering in his chest and his lungs were constricting with every breath under the oppressive aura of the Treeline, and the fact that the sounds of battle in the distance were the only sounds at all made those problems just that much worse. Even the animals had fallen silent – no snarls, no howls, no growls and no whines.

A battle for survival raged in the distance, and dead silence and shadow swallowed up all sounds of life around him – truly, this 'Twisted Treeline' was a most macabre place.

Almost instinctively, his grip around the crimson sword's hilt tightened just a bit.

"_Calm, Garret,"_ Furia attempted to placate him. "_Regain control – you are your own worst enemy now."_

Harsh as it may have seemed, it was the cold truth. Countless times in the past Garret had nearly been caught – or killed – because of his lack of self-control as far as his emotions and emotional responses were concerned. Gritting his teeth, he took a few deep breaths and slowed to a halt. He bent forwards slightly, resting his palms on his knees as he tried to regain control of his breathing. Deep breaths, he thought – every gasp of air seemed to set his lungs on fire as the constricted around themselves but at the very least, the sharp, stabbing pains were a good way to ground himself. If anything could pierce fear's cold, clammy vice, it was pain – and the scholar knew this all too well.

Slowly but surely, he felt his heart calm, if only marginally – enough to make it stop hammering in ears. The burning in his lungs also dissipated somewhat, leaving a paradoxically pleasant sting in place of the agonising sear his breathing normally caused. That ever-familiar tingling at the back of his head had intensified during his little trek deeper into the Treeline, a confirmation from the Summoners that Quinn was indeed close by – not close enough to hear or see, but close enough to make him just a bit more at ease.

It was at that moment that Garret heard a peculiar sound:

A childish giggle was drifting through the undergrowth.

It was both confusing and disturbing, that such an innocent sound could be found in such an ominous place. It was that bubbling type of giggle that you'd hear in a park or a playground, where thoughts of happiness and bliss and childish naiveté and joyous ignorance were the order of the day. It sounded so pure, so… _unaware_ of what else was lurking in the Treeline. Idly he wondered if it could have been another Champion – that alone was unnerving; if the Institute drafted _children_ to fight on the Fields of Justice, there was a much darker tone to the group than Garret had ever suspected. '_Furia,'_ he addressed his tenant. '_Do you hear that?'_

"_I do,"_ the ancient woman responded. There was a hint of distaste to her voice – and yet, she did not exactly seem perturbed. "_Be wary Garret. Monsters oft use children as tools of war."_

The giggle sounded again, then, behind him – closer, this time. It drifted up from beneath the undergrowth and down from between the twisting, vicious limbs of the bare trees arcing above him. He whipped around, his breath hitching slightly. There was something haunting about that giggle, he noticed now; something almost _sinister._ It echoed again, all around him this time – dozens of tiny, innocent voices giggled and chortled and laughed and snorted in hollow, empty, _false_ happiness, and the sounds seemed to cascade from the very darkness around him. Hushed whispers of "_Hey mister!"_ and "_Over here!"_ seemed to assault him from every corner, and between the laughter and the merriment the faintest warning of "_Watch out for the sickle!"_ snuck into his hearing.

The calm that had settled upon him mere moments before evaporated in a flash as mass panic set in. Frozen in place, Garret spun on his heels, his head whipping in the direction of every hushed whisper and excited call. Despite the multitude of voices being the epitome of _innocent_, the darkness they echoed from almost _wept_ palpable malicious intent, and once more the scholar found his fight-or-flight instinct urging him to move, to get as far away from everything as humanly possible and _never_ come back.

And yet, before he could even react to his own instincts, the cacophony died down. What had been raucous laughter slowly faded, muting itself to the level of a few disembodied chuckles and giggles here and there, and the warnings and calls had stopped completely. Garret didn't trust this development – with shaky breaths and erratic eyes he clasped both hands around the hilt of the crimson sword that had been conjured for him, and scanned the darkness around him for any sign of another mad crescendo of haunting giggles and laughter. Slowly he started moving back, turning in place as he continued down the beaten path and keeping his eyes on the few remaining sources of sound, sound which had been reduced to little more than airy gasps. That, too, seemed to fade away completely, and nought but dead silence was left in its wake. Even the battle in the distance had ended.

Taking deep, shaky breaths, Garret scanned the darkness around him once again. With narrowed, quivering eyes he observed every little detail he could make out in the shadows, seeking perhaps a dead giveaway of movement or presence or _anything_ that could explain why he had just heard children's voices around him. Much to his ire – and great, overwhelming relief – the only movement in the darkened underbrush was the result of the slow, clammy breeze permeating the Treeline.

He remained frozen in place, hands still clamped around the sword's hilt, before his shoulders slumped slightly, and a relieved exhale escaped him upon realising the threat was imaginary – or at least, fleeting. Shaking his head, he uttered a soft chuckle, turned around…

"_Hello mister!"_

…and found the mutilated face of a young boy looking up at him with wonder.

With a loud yelp, the scholar darted back, stricken with terror at the gruesome sight. His legs, suddenly numb and heavy, flailed about slightly, and in his mad dash to get away from the mangled visage before him Garret tripped over his own feet and crashed to the ground. The fall knocked the wind right out of his sails as his back slammed down on the cobbled road, but even then, the sporadic twitches and spasms quickly morphed into a desperate, horrified crawl backwards.

The boy – if he could even be called that – was a sight seemingly ripped from the most violent of nightmares. Half-translucent, the young green spectre turned the gouged wounds where his eyes used to be towards the fallen scholar, and what remained of his scarred brow furrowed in worry. It was a hideous sight, and even the shame Garret felt at thinking such thoughts could not stem the sheer revulsion spawned by the boy before him. "_You should run now mister,"_ the boy spoke, lisping through slashed lips, and sickly green ichor dripped from the gaping wound across his neck. "_You really should run."_

Garret's mouth opened and closed, his mind shorting out from the unholy mix of confusion and abject terror. The boy's frown deepened when Garret finally struggled up onto his knees, unable to avert his eyes from the grisly spectre before him. The boy opened his mouth, showcasing a murky pit where his tongue used to be, and seemed to be on the verge of warning the scholar again, but it was not his voice that suddenly echoed through the stillness – it was a much more sinister sound.

It started out being barely audible – a hint of a sound carried high on the wind, drowned out by the howling gales and the groaning of the dead trees dancing in the breeze. Less than a soft hiss, really – until it intensified. The low hiss became louder, more metallic, more _malicious_, and the ever-cacophonous _clinking_ and _clanging_ of chains dangling and dancing in the air. They scraped against stone and wood, screeching and creaking in the distance, and the wind carried the chiming sounds high into the sky.

The mist around them suddenly changed – what was once gray and obscuring suddenly turned green, and the opacity of it all started to fade; even the darkness of the treeline could not swallow up the unearthly glow.

And through it all, the _cling_ing and _clang_ing and scraping of chains grew ever louder.

Behind the mangled visage of the young spectre, something akin to a door slamming echoed between the trees and reverberated through the very earth, and a piercing green light erupted amidst the dark, sinister trunks. The spirit of the young boy turned his eyeless gaze back, glancing at the piercing brightness, before turning back to face Garret – and his once solemn, worried expression _twisted_ into one of morbid glee and mania. "_You should have run, mister,"_ the boy said, his voice warping and lowering, sounding almost _demonic_. "_Now it's too late…!"_

"_Garret,"_ Furia's voice _roared_ throughout the scholar's mind, shaking him from his stupor. Realising the peril he was in, he took several shaky steps backwards, horrified by the spectre of the mad child before him. The boy was giggling now, maniacal and sinister, and his tiny, tortured frame shook with mirth. "_Garret! You need to run! Now!_" Furia's voice had lost every ounce of excitement and calm it once had – the battle-hardened spirit sounded downright _shaken_.

That was enough to spur Garret into action.

With a single, _violent_ shake of his head, the scholar sprang into action. His human arm, still clutching the crimson sword, arched back and tensed, and he _hurled_ the red weapon clean through the child's spectre and right at the centre of the piercing green light. It had hardly left his hand and he was already in mid-turn, the heels of his boots squeaking against the cobbled path. He launched himself into the opposite direction just as a loud _clang_ and the shattering of glass reached his ears, and even that couldn't make him slow. He poured as much energy and strength as his wiry frame could muster into his legs, in an attempt to barrel himself away from the coming threat – but it was all in vain.

Too late he heard the hissing of a malicious chain, and the whistling of a sharp blade soaring through the air.

Garret was jerked clean from his sprint when something cold and constricting wrapped around his human arm with a loud, almost _sickening_ clang. The sudden yank pulled him right off his feet and once again he was met by the cold, unforgiving surface of the cobbled road. The pain that shot through his shoulder spawned the idea that something had been pulled or dislocated, but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to care. He scrambled to his knees again, cradling his left arm. The pale chain wrapped around the limb seeped cold right into his bones, and the almost _inhuman _scythe that had spun around and locked the chain in place glinted eerily in the pale moonlight.

With a flicker, the maimed spectre of that same young boy appeared again, giggling and skipping and dancing around his fallen form.

The chain jerked then, a quick, reeling motion that plucked Garret forwards, causing him to fall flat on his face again. Another reeling motion dragged him along the cold stone path, birthing scrapes and scuffs on his face as he flailed about – writhing like a worm on a hook. His despair peaked when he realised he had been caught, _thoroughly_ caught, and would now likely be at his captor's mercy. More spectres joined the maimed boy in dancing around him, some boys, some girls, some wounded and some not, but all of them – _all_ of them – ghostly apparitions. "_Cling, clang, go the chains~"_ they sang, their voices in perfect, ethereal unison.

And above the entire ruckus, a sinister, otherworldly, downright _inhuman_ cackle echoed across the Treeline.

"_They are quite useful, aren't they?"_ The voice that drifted from the piercing green light was cold, utterly devoid of life. It had an echoing hollowness to it that made it sound as though many were speaking as one, with perfect timing and coordination, and the undertone of malice and murder the voice held was nothing short of terrifying. The ruckus within the mist died down – the children went from gleeful and singing to hushed and secretive, whispering amongst themselves and shooting curious, somewhat excited glances at him, and the sudden lull in noise allowed Garret to hear the sound of footsteps in the distance – heavy footfalls that crunched leaves and twigs between sole and stone.

Then the speaker exited the piercing green light, and Garret felt his blood turn to ice at the sight.

It was an image ripped straight from the deepest pits of mortal terror – the being before him looked vaguely humanoid, but that was where its humanity both started and ended; a worn leather coat covered a sturdy frame and broad shoulders, and dark boots sent echoes through the dead silence with every step. But the face, that inhuman, _terrifying_ skeletal face alight with green flame basked the area in an otherworldly glow. Hook-tipped chains resembling dreadlocks hung from the back of the monster's skull, draped lazily over the coat's high collar, and the piercing fires shining within the eye sockets promised naught but an existence defined by torment. One clawed hand slackly held the chain that was wrapped around Garret's wrist, and the other kept a shining lantern carved from what seemed to be _human bone_ hovering in the air.

The most terrifying part was the fact that Garret _swore_ the skull's sharp teeth were contorted into a _grin_.

"_Whether they make my prisoners run in terror or stand rooted by fear_," the ghostly apparition spoke, its ominous voice leaking amusement, "_the children always serve their purpose."_ As if _humbled_ by the mention, the child-like spectres around them giggled with joy, before skipping towards the skeletal chain wielder. One by one, they shrunk, becoming nothing but shining little globes of light – and Garret watched with horror as the bony lantern opened with an audible _click_, and swallowed them up like a vacuum before _slamming_ shut with a condemning _thud_.

"_I was told,"_ the spectre continued, turning his inquisitive gaze to Garret's kneeling form, "_that I would be facing the latest Champion to step into the Institute's playgrounds."_ The undertone of amusement never left that ghostly voice – it was as though the prospect of fighting in the Fields of Justice posed little more than a game. "_The rumours spoke of another Demacian coming here. I found this news… exciting. I expected a fighter, another dauntless soldier whose mind I could _snap_ like a twig, or another grizzled Ranger whose despair would be simply _delicious_…"_ He trailed off, letting another sinister chuckle drift from his skeletal, ever-grinning mouth.

His gaze hardened then, and that semblance of a grin became _that_ much more sinister for it.

"_So imagine my surprise,"_ he spoke, his voice dropping several octaves, so it sounded as though it was no more than a whisper in Garret's ear, "_when I realised my latest victim is not a mighty warrior, or a swift ranger… but nothing but a quivering little _pup_."_

That final word was accentuated with another violent tug on the chain, and once again Garret was sent sprawling onto the cold ground. The abominable spectre slowly started walking forwards, reeling in the chain as he went so as to keep it taut – to keep his latest prey from escaping. Again, Garret scrambled to his knees, wrapping his abhuman hand around the pale cord. Even the deadened limb stung as the cold seeped into it, and it pulsed once, bright red under the sudden sensation. Garret gave the chain a hard pull, hoping to earn at least some leeway, but that, too, was futile – the undead spectre's grip was like a vice, and his posture rigid as steel.

And throughout the ordeal, he never broke his stride.

"_I am no fool, though,"_ the chain-wielding madman spoke, with a contemplative tone. "_Were you as worthless as you appear, you wouldn't be here, would you, little pup? No, the Fields of Justice are no place for mere mundane dregs… There must be something quite special in that deformed little limb of yours, to make the Institute draft someone like _you_…"_ The fires in the skull's eye sockets dimmed and lowered ever so slightly, creating an _uncanny_ recreation of narrowing eyes. "_Tell me… What secrets are you hiding, pup? What makes you _worth_ it, hmm?"_

Garret said nothing in response – whether this was out of fear or a sudden burst of suicidal stubbornness, he could not deduce; his mind was a maelstrom of despairing cries and futile hope, and even Furia's voice had gone silent amongst the cacophony. He gave the chain another strong tug, this time bracing his right foot against the cobbled path, hoping to extra sturdiness could change something – but once more, the chain went taut, and the ghostly madman before him remained unflinching. "_Silence, then…"_ He heard the spectre muse, a tone of aloof contemplation just _barely_ failing to mask unbridled _glee_. "_…How delightful. I do so love it when they struggle,"_ he mused. "_Speak or do not, pup…"_ He said ominously, and at that moment, the eerie grin his sharp teeth formed turned downright _maniacal._

"_Your soul will tell me everything… in time."_

At that moment, reality wrapped Garret in its cold, harsh, unforgiving grip, and he was forced to realise the sinister spectre was less than ten feet from him. Every tug at the taut chain drew them closer together, and every tug made the ice in the pit of his stomach chill him that much more. In the throes of panic, the scholar's wits failed him – his mind shorted and his instincts outright left him at the cruel mercy of the mad spectre. With a hammering heart and erratic thoughts, it was at that moment that Garret found himself hoping for salvation and safety more than he ever had in his life – even while on the run. It was all he could do, after all.

At that moment, a loud _screech_ echoed across the eerie stillness, and the branches above them split apart under an outright _heroic_ dive-bomb.

Salvation came in a blur of dark feathers and sharp talons, and the mad spectre finally stumbled under a _relentless_ assault from above. What had been a malicious cackle turned into an irate growl as the ghostly apparition swatted at the enormous eagle assailing him. The bird of prey, however, was every bit as swift as nature intended it to be – every swat struck nothing but empty air, allowing an opening for his talons to rake across the spectre's exposed skull with sickening scrapes. With an outraged snarl, the spectre yanked the chain again – and instead of pulling the scholar down once more, it came undone, sliding off his arm and retracting back to the madman's outstretched hand.

This time, Garret did not pause to ponder a single thing.

With a heave of breath he shot to his feet, just as the spectre's chain-linked scythe returned to his clawed hand. Fully aware of just how fast that thing could travel when thrown, the scholar tore his view off his former captor immediately, just as the eagle uttered what sounded like an urgent screech in the middle of its assault. Garret spun on his heel immediately, and bolted into the dark undergrowth and off the beaten path just as the sound of the scythe's sharp edge slicing through the air reached his ears again.

More than a decade venturing off the beaten path paid off – he nimbly hopped over fallen trunks and tangling roots and ducked under arcing branches with ease belying his passive, physically inactive nature. A strangled cry of outrage sounded behind him, and once more he heard the cold chains hiss behind him as it soared to entangle him once again. He flung himself aside, tucking into a desperate roll as the chain-linked scythe soared over him, embedding itself right up to the shaft in a tree he had been aiming to sidestep. This actually merely spurred him on further – he straightened up once more, not even chancing a look back, and sprinted off into the darkness – away from the threat.

Seeing the scholar was safe from threat – however temporarily it may be – the giant Demacian eagle relented in his assault on the mad spectre. With a mighty beat of its broad wings it propelled itself far away from the flailing chains of the spectral warden, and wryly, Valor offered an outright _taunting_ screech before taking off through the treetops again, disappearing into the murky sky as quickly as he had appeared to save his partner's teammate.

With a livid jerk, the Chain Warden wrenched his scythe free from the tree trunk it had embedded itself in. His outrage, however, was fleeting – the little pup had escaped him, true, but it was hardly a permanent outcome; if nothing else, the fool was merely delaying the inevitable. Offhandedly he realised just how easily the pup had manoeuvred the harsh undergrowth of the treeline – there was a nimble swiftness to his movements, spawned undoubtedly by years fleeing like the pathetic little coward he was.

That alone was enticing; it had been _ages_ since the Warden had partook in an entertaining chase.

The sneer his sharp teeth had set into quickly turned into a sick, twisted grin, and yet another malicious, insane chuckle bubbled up from the fires where his throat would have been in life. "_So he runs,"_ the Warden mused, his muted tone not hiding his mirth at all. "_…How exciting… This is turning out just like the prison!"_

And so, with a flourish of scythe and a loud, maniacal cackle, the Chain Warden gave chase.

* * *

With a loud grunt, Garret burst through the underground and into a large, moonlit clearing in the middle of the Treeline. Feeling he had finally put enough distance between him and the insane, chain-wielding sadist, he slowed to a halt and slumped against a nearby tree trunk, slowly sliding down to the ground until he found himself sitting haphazardly on the exposed roots. Cold sweat poured down the sides of his face, making strands of his mane of hair cling to his forehead and cheeks. Every heartbeat sent pain ricocheting throughout his chest, and every deep gulp of air set his lungs ablaze – and yet, he couldn't be bothered with the pain.

His head lolled about on his shoulders, eyes drooping from the fatigue as the adrenaline left his system. Every breath shook as much as his limbs trembled, and almost the _moment_ he had taken his weight off his legs they turned cold and numb. He shook his head, once, twice, thrice, trying to dispel the mess of thoughts dwelling there in order to form something coherent for once.

He had faced many different trials and tribulations, from bandits to cutthroats to bounty hunters. He had felt fear numerous time while on the run – whether it was from straying too close to Xer'Sai territory in Shurima, or falling asleep in the run-down slums of Zaun, fear was an emotion Garret had developed a close, yet vitriolic kinship with over the years. After all, that which made him feel disgusted with himself was often that which kept him alive. However, his meeting with that malicious ghost overshadowed every single horror-stricken moment of his past.

Being at the mercy of a sadistic madman who intended to _rip out his soul…_

Garret had never before felt such cold, nauseating terror.

"_Garret?!"_ In his calmed state, Furia's voice once more echoed throughout his mindscape. "_Host! Can you hear me?"_

'_I… I…'_ Once more Garret shook his head, hoping to dispel the sense of erratic panic still lingering there. '_I hear you…'_ Even without giving a voice to his response, he could not help but flinch at how _weak_ he sounded. '_Wha-What was that?' _He asked despairingly. '_What was that monster?'_

"_Undead,"_ Furia's response was once more devoid of her usual sense of calm and docility, replaced by naught but sheer revulsion and disgust. "_Abominations, the lot of them. And those souls…"_ She spat. "_Disgusting fiend."_

'_Those souls…'_ Garret repeated, shaken to his very core. Despite being far away from both the eerie green light and the haunting glow of that bone-carved lantern, the scholar could not banish the images of those poor, _poor_ children from his find. The one that spoke to him haunted him the most – the one with his eyes carved out and throat slashed, butchered like a pig. '_Does that mean…'_

"_They were once living, yes,"_ Furia noted, somewhat hesitantly and not at all devoid of disapproval and disgust. "_Be it by the spectre's hand, or by another's, those children… Their ends were not peaceful. The desecration of such innocence… How truly monstrous…"_

'_And they expect us to _fight_ him?'_ Garret asked, somewhat numbly. '_He, he… He can rip the souls from one's body, how do they even expect us to, to…'_ Idly, he noticed that pang of sense at the back of his mind peaking, the instinctive cue from a Summoner than an ally was close by, and yet – he couldn't bring himself to care. '_Those kids… They were so twisted,'_ he spoke, shaking his head once again. '_What… What could he have _done_ to them to warp them like that?'_

"_I do not know."_ Furia's admission was simple, curt, and yet, there was a grudging edge to it – as though the very fact irked her. "_I do know, however, that once our transition succeeds… That monster will be the first to die."_

Any further conversation was halted when they heard a crash of twigs and branches next to them. That 'sixth sense' Jax had mentioned peaked at that moment, yet still the scholar found himself jumping slightly at the sudden sound. Fortunately – be it through a desperate hope to see a friendly face or simple memory recalling unique garb – Garret recognised Quinn's muted, almost feathery appearance immediately. When he first met her eyes they were narrowed and focused, scanning every inch of terrain around her impromptu ally as her crossbow remained primed and ready. A few tense moments passed, before she was suitably satisfied with the lack of immediate danger, and quickly, nimbly, she moved to where Garret was slumped against the tree. She placed a hand on his shoulder to try and steady his quaking form, and despite the contrary being much more likely, the hint of contact soothed him – if only marginally. "Are you hurt?" She asked – quick, simple, professional; yet with an underlying note of worry.

"M-My psyche, more than anything," Garret responded, exhaling tiredly and resting his head against the twisted tree trunk. "Gods above… I… I thought I knew fear, but _that_…" He paused again, trying to recompose himself. A part of him condescended the sudden rampant fear he felt – decried it as detrimental and time-wasting, even – but that was a very small part, eclipsed by the part of him overjoyed at _not_ being a soul-stealing ghost's latest acquisition. Idly, he started moving his legs again – the feeling of pins and needles made the practice highly discomforting, but it was a necessary measure; sitting here would merely let that mad spectre find him easier.

"Who?" Again, Quinn's question was the epitome of professionalism the Ranger's prided themselves on – even now, her eyes scanned their surroundings intently, and despite having one hand planted firmly on Garret's shoulder, the other hand had a finer curled neatly around her custom crossbow's trigger.

"I don't know," Garret answered, shifting where he sat. "He… He did not introduce himself. I know he was undead, some, some kind of spectre, maybe – he wore this sick-looking leather coat and, and… Chains! They… Chains seemed to be his motif. That or, or souls, maybe, the ones in that hellish lantern…"

Quinn clicked her tongue where she sat, her frown deepening. "Thresh…" She said disdainfully, although even she could not hide the discomfort she felt at knowing that monster opposed her in this battle. "Dammit… That complicates matters…"

_Thresh,_ Garret thought glumly. _How positively fitting…_ "What is he, even?"

"A madman," Quinn responded curtly, turning her gaze to the sky in a bid to find her avian partner. "He's a sadistic monster, who collects the souls of strong individuals after breaking them mentally. He's… He's one of the most feared individuals in the League – and with good reason." She trailed off for a moment, still scanning the skies. "How'd you escape?"

"Your friend," Garret answered, before a wracking cough interrupted him. "Valor saved me. He… He came out of nowhere, really – that monster, Thresh… He had me at his mercy. If it weren't for Valor, well… my first death here would have been an unpleasant affair." Idly he made a note to ask Quinn just how on earth he'd go about thanking a giant bird of prey for saving his life. This, however, was not the time for such a thing - with an uncomfortable groan, the scholar set about trying to rise to his feet again. "I heard him chuckling to himself," he said through his struggling, "as I bolted away. He muttered to himself too – I could not hear what he said, but… I think it is safe to assume he is giving chase."

The Ranger turned her attention back to him. For a moment, she pondered something – something he'd likely never know – before nodding in understanding. She opened her mouth to respond to his statement… but the voice that answered him was not hers.

Rather, it was a ghastly, echoing tone – one that made Garret's blood freeze up all over again.

"_How right you are, little pup…"_

Quinn's crossbow had snapped towards the source of the voice the moment it filtered into the small clearing. Once more, gray mist paled and turned an ominous, sickly green, and amidst tree trunks basking in the ethereal light of the ghostly warden's visage, he approached – hovering above the twisting roots and thorny shrubbery, his lantern held aloft in one hand and that sinister, scythe-tipped chain swinging timidly in the other. Soon enough his boots touched down on the somewhat smooth earth of the clearing, and his fanged grin, it seemed, had not subsided in the least. "_I was hoping our little game of cat and mouse would be more… _exciting,_"_ he said, completely casual – as though the prospect of facing down two opponents instead of one barely fazed him. "_Instead, you end it before it even began… How disappointing,"_ he mumbled. "_Although there is a silver lining, I suppose; hers is a mind I have not clawed at in quite some time… Isn't that right, Ranger?"_

"What are you playing at?" Quinn demanded, keeping her crossbow trained _right_ between the spectre's eyes. Her lovely countenance had settled into a deep, _paranoid_ frown, and she had crouched down slightly, in order to steady herself a bit better. "This is a battle," she said curtly. "You shouldn't be showing your face when you're alone."

To their great surprise, the chain-wielding madman merely tossed back his head and laughed, a hollow, echoing series of insane cackles, His shoulders shook with mirth, and through the gaping map of black, skeletal fangs, the core of the green fire surrounding his skull couldn't have been more obvious if it tried to be. "_And what, pray tell, makes you think I am alone, Ranger?"_ the Warden asked smugly. Slowly, he turned his dread visage to the side, glancing over his shoulder.

Just then, the dead silence of the surroundings was _shattered_ by an ear-splitting, almost _metallic_ boom, and the Treeline itself seemed to shudder under the foreboding sound.

Garret, unwilling to wholly divert his focus from his would-be pursuer, chanced half an inquisitive glance towards Quinn – and immediately wished her hadn't. Gone was the condescending frown she had worn seconds before, replaced by a wide-eyed look of warning and a posture that seemed ready to _retreat_ at a moment's notice. It was not at all a reassuring sight. The scholar opened his mouth, ready to ask just _what_ that was and how it inspired such a reaction in the dauntless Ranger, but the Chain Warden beat him to it. "_You'd best call that bird of yours, Ranger,"_ the spectre taunted, slowly moving to the side. "_You'll need him… if only to postpone your death a bit."_

The sounds of pure, unadulterated _chaos_ sifted through the horrid trees around them, and the very earth beneath their feet quivered under the impending arrival. The sickly green hue the mist around them had taken on did nothing to hide the rapidly brightening blot of pure, fiery red in the distance, a cone of palpable hurt barrelling towards them at _frightening_ speeds. The sounds of chaos intensified – what was a low rumble elevated into a _hideous growl_, and the sounds of cracking stone and splintering tree trunks accompanied the bloody bullet rocketing towards them.

And with a raw, almost _bloodthirsty_ bellow, a maelstrom of violence exploded into the clearing.

When the sturdy trees gave way under the unstoppable onslaught, it was a fraction of a memory, not at all his own, that saved Garret from becoming a smear on shattered cobblestone. A knee-jerk reaction made him leap aside, tucking his legs into a roll as the red rocket dispersed in a near atomic burst of might and strength, and the earth where the scholar had stood mere _seconds_ before a decimating strike sundered the stone into small chunks and pebbles. The sheer force from the blow knocked Garret aside mid-roll and sent him tumbling across the moss-covered ground, until coming to a dead stop in a heap of contorted limbs and bruises.

The strength behind the assault had kicked up a cloud of dirt and dust, Garret noticed once he disentangled himself. In the distance he heard Quinn calling his name, awaiting a response – she'd apparently vaulted to the side when the new attacker's onslaught ripped into the clearing. Slowly, the dust started to subside, and Garret finally saw the newest enemy in full – and he heard his own audible gulp at the sight.

The man, no, the _beast_ before him dwarfed even Demacia's Captain Crownguard – a monster of a man in his own right. Easily eight feet tall, the pale, almost snow white juggernaut rose from his crouched position, and the moonlight dancing off his alabaster skin _perfectly_ highlighted an amount of defined scars and stitchmarks no living person should have on their body. The giant, belt-like apparatus around his midsection stoked a mass of swirling red, a shade matched by his murderously sharp eyes, and irritably, the cast-iron peg leg replacing his one foot stomped, turning chunks and pebbles into dust – and less. One hand gripped a _titanic_ axe better described as a sledge of steel attached to a shaft, and…

Garret balked slightly. Was that a _crown_ attached to the thing's jaw?!

The monstrous man growled like a rabid animal, a throaty sound that seemed to reverberate through the very stone, and the colossal giant alternated his hateful gaze between Garret and his nimble ally. Another low growl escaped him, and the crown bolted to his jaw twitched slightly, before the beast of a man opened his mouth. "Finally…" he spoke, his voice a rumble greater than a dozen war drums, with a raw, raspy edge spawned only by bloodthirst. "Finally the _killing can start!"_ He said manically, still switching his gaze between Garret and Quinn, before finally letting his murderous glare settle on the thoroughly frazzled Ranger. He frowned when he saw the giant eagle settle on her arm with a loud shriek, and he gripped his axe ever tighter. "Yes… I think I'll start with _you!_"

With a burst of speed belied by his colossal size, the juggernaut _hurled_ himself towards Quinn, and flailed his colossal axe outward in a relentless strike. The Ranger vaulted to the side just as the weapon's jagged crashed down, shattering the stone she stood on seconds before and kicking up another slight cloud of dust. Quinn had her crossbow aimed at him the moment she touched down on the ground, and loosed a volley of short bolts at the white titan. Their tips pierced his chest, ripping through muscle and reverberating off the bone beneath.

And yet, the mad warrior barely faltered.

The giant axe-wielder merely bellowed at Quinn, a loud, almost animalistic roar, and continued his lumbering pursuit. More bolts pierced his chest and arms, impacting with loud _thuds_, but they too were ignored in favour of trying to crush the slippery Ranger. The enormous axe swung left and right, vaguely horizontal or diagonal, it didn't matter, it seemed – the axe would only stop once the falconer was dead, smeared across the Treeline's soil. Quinn, despite the overwhelming odds, however, barely faltered herself; every swing of the monstrous axe was met with a _seamless_ evasion, be it a hop back, a dip down or a vault over the titanic weapon, and not _once_ did her relentless ranged assault waver – the short bolts kept hitting home, piercing skin and flesh, despite their seemingly ignored effects.

The titan bellowed then – not so much a beastly roar as it was an outlet of sheer, pent-up heat and rage. The thundering _bark_ twisted and fogged the very air it travelled through, and what normally could have been a simple scream of rage ended up sending a literal _shockwave_ of sound outwards, a wall of sonic violence that kicked up leaves and twigs and even made the trees around them arc out of the way. The monstrous holler slammed squarely into Quinn, and with a pained yelp she was sent careening on her heel, her aim faltering as clawed at the sides of her crown-like faceplate. With a mighty tug she ripped the garment off, placing a palm over her ear as she drunkenly staggered backwards.

Something, he knew not what it was, stirred within him then. He felt apprehension and concern both his own and another's, and by now Garret was certain it was not the Summoner at work. Panting slightly he clambered to his feet. '_We need to help her,'_ he mused inwardly, steadying himself. His body still rocked with quivers, due in no small part to the chain-toting spectre's re-emergence and the alabaster titan's dynamic entry into the clearing, but much to his own ire and gratitude, that tiny _shred_ of honour he'd clung to during his years as a convict came to the fore. '_What… What do we do?'_

Wordlessly, his tenant responded – once more, the crimson mist surrounded him; it was much more fluid this time, and the formation of a weapon took scant _seconds_. What originally formed into a basic yet lavish blade now bent and snapped, and the creaking of wood met his ears. With a final flicker and a final convulse, the mist compressed, and in his hands he now found a bow – plain, almost bland, and yet… so simplistically intricate. "_Have you ever used a bow before, Garret?"_ Furia questioned, and the jagged, barbed tip of an arrow formed just above the human hand Garret had used to grip the arch of the weapon. The scholar shook his head, feeling just a tad nervous at suddenly handling the weapon – of all the weapons he'd seen and heard of, the bow scared him the most. "_No matter,"_ the lady of war responded. "_I have."_

And once more, sweet remembrance of bygone times from another life flooded him. With confident movement, he nocked and drew the arrow, taking careful aim as refined expertise and skill belonging to another defined his movement. Despite the limb being dead, he could _feel_ the taut string under his mutated fingers, and with his human arm locked in place, he seemed the very epitome of a skill archer…

…Just like his brother, he noticed with both awe and apprehension.

His aim was measured, careful, yet true – the lumbering juggernaut's head hovered in his sights, and a jagged, crimson arrow was set to pierce flesh and hopefully skull along with it. Even if it had the same effect as Quinn's bolts, at the very least, it would draw the titan's attention away from her just long enough for her to recover from the sensory overload that bellow had caused. That monster would set its sights on him next, true… but he was nothing if not very, _very_ good at fleeing.

His eyes narrowed.

He drew a deep breath.

And just when he intended to release that crucial shot, the hissing and scraping of chains assaulted his hearing once more.

A flash of green made his aim waver just as a sinister scythe cleaved the smoke-based weapon in two with a loud _snap_. The top half of the arch shot backwards as the tension in the bow backfired, and the smoky wood _shattered_ as it struck Garret clean in the face. The chains hissed again, and with that instinctive reaction Furia buzzed into his mind he stumbled backwards just as the hook-tipped chain was yanked backwards, and narrowly he avoided having his throat slit open by the sharp edge. He spun on his heel as the red smoke formed a haphazard sword in his hand, and another bolt of shared memory and skill had him raising the blade up and parrying the swinging scythe clumsily. The assault was becoming relentless – he was gaining zero ground as the scythe sailed through the air, and soon he was certain he'd find his back up against a tree.

The chain arced back, coiled like a snake, and struck again – and this time, Furia's shared expertise failed him.

His parry was much too slow to be of any use, and the scythe raked across his cheek, opening a deep gash and eliciting a pained yelp from the scholar. The sudden burst of pain made him slam his eyes shut, a critical error in the current situation, and with his guard reduced to blind flailing, the scythe struck again – first slashing across his chest, then across the top of his thigh. More and more of Furia's aid filtered into his mind, and he quickly righted his stance. He opened his eyes, hoping to see his assailant so he – and Furia – could read their movement.

That thought ceased when a familiar, bone-crafted lantern slammed against his head.

The resulting concussion obliterated what was left of his guard, and Garret felt the chains wrap around his ankles before he could even groan in pain from the blunt blow. His attempt to brace himself was futile – a merciless tug ripped his feet out from under him, and once again his back slammed down on the cold ground, knocking his wind out.

And the moment he opened his eyes, that ever familiar green glow greeted him sinisterly.

A boot-clad foot slammed down on his mutated hand, pinning him down, and when his vision fully cleared, he found himself in a terrifyingly familiar situation – once more he was flat on his back, with a sickly pale chain wrapped around one of his limbs, and above him, that skeletal madman hovered ominously, his sharp fangs pulled into a downright _evil_ grin. The chain-like dreadlocks dangled in the wind, and the fires in his eye sockets churned and pulsed, almost flickering with amusement.

"_You know,"_ Thresh spoke, his voice cold as ice despite his smiling face, "_it's really rude to ignore people, little pup…"_

* * *

_Well, that's that,_ Jax thought, taking on a more casual stance and patting himself down as that rancid-looking angel dissipated into small wisps of magic. _And good riddance – your sister's way hotter._

Despite his resolute insistence that he, The Champ, is, was and always will be everyone's better in terms of combat and being badass, the fight had still been reasonably challenging – not precisely a walk in the park, no, it was more of an uphill jog if anything. Slightly tiring, slightly strenuous, but still elementary as all hell and something even the dregs of the world could pull off. He looked down at the spot where the Fallen Angel had died from a good shot to her skull, courtesy of his trusty lamppost. At first, he pondered whether he should actually say it – no doubt the hideous woman could still see him from inside that twilight-zone bullshit the Institute puts you in if you die. It wasn't that he was scared of the woman – he was The Champ. He wasn't scared of anything – _nada_. However, the Fallen Angel had proven herself to be nothing but persistent – she'd apparently been a pain in Kayle's ass for a handful of _millennia_.

He wasn't exactly in the mood for that bullshit, no sir.

Nonetheless; he was The Champ. And he'd just won fair and square.

Bragging rights outweighed the negatives, after all.

So with a flourish of his trusty lamppost, he offered a hearty laugh at the Fallen Angel's demise, and spoke.

"Heh. Imagine if I had a _real_ weapon."

Surprisingly, that did _not_ mark the first time he felt someone sneering at him from beyond the grave.

Any further thought or spiting, though, would have to wait – Jax was shaken from his triumphant reverie when he heard a downright_ fearful_ screech echoing above. He turned his gaze upwards, his first instinct being to yell profanities at that damned chicken for being such a nuisance – but the sheer urgency behind the bird of prey's flight pattern made them die out in his throat. That flight pattern was erratic, manic, and most of all _desperate_. That was never a good sign – especially coming from such a smart animal. Jax groaned as the pieces of the puzzle came together in his head. Garret and Quinn should have been more than a match for Thresh if the spooky asshole made the mistake of showing his face, and Kayle's less hot, less fun sister now lay dead at his feet.

That meant Sion had finally made an appearance.

And _that_… That was bad shit.

For once, there was no time for a snarky, witty one-liner – Sion generally didn't fuck about when it came to fighting, so every _second_ was crucial.

With that in mind, the Grandmaster at Arms sped off into the foliage – barely sparing another second of his time for the angelic woman he had slain minutes before.

* * *

With another loud cry, Garret was sent flying by another baleful yank of that ever-spiteful chain. The Chain Warden was absolutely merciless in his onslaught – while the sinister spectre was obviously, _obviously_ toying with the scholar, the sadistic approach made the practice seem more like actual torture. The moment it _seemed_ as though Garret would finally regain his footing, either his legs were whipped out from under him or that damnable chain would yank him clean off his feet and leave him sprawled across the dirt. Every weapon Furia formed for him was cruelly hooked away by that ominous sickle and whenever he'd successfully utilise Furia's 'muscle-memory' and manage to _evade_ one attack, the madman would be waiting with no shortage of follow-ups. Be it a stomp to the side of the knee or a bash to the face from that dreadful, dreadful lantern, the undead lunatic was always seemingly one step ahead.

"_Scuttling about like a skittish little animal, despite the odds,"_ Thresh mused with a chuckle as he once more sent the scholar flying with a well-timed flail of his lantern. "_What willpower… You must really want to live, don't you, pup?"_

Another jerk of the chain sent Garret careening into a tree, and only a burst of instinct from his tenant spared him as he ducked his head by reflex. The scythe atop the chain carved a massive chunk out of the tree trunk barely an _inch_ above his crouched form, and he _swore_ he felt splinters tumbling past his collar and down his back. Once more he reached out for a weapon, once more the red mist solidified into a rather weighty Morningstar, and once more, the instrument was sadistically torn from his grasp by either a cold, skeletal hand or yet another blasted chain. The Warden cackled as he saw Garret scrambling away, a responded with yet another whimsical flay of his chain, tripping the scholar as he went.

The cackle turned into an outright _hideous_ bout of laughter when the tripping action caused Garret to slam face-first into a smaller tree off to the side.

The loud _snap_ sounding as his nose broke from the impact probably had something to do with the Warden's amusement. The ensuing concussion probably helped too.

As he drunkenly stumbled about on all-fours, clutching at his broken nose and blinking away the tears spawned by the pain, Garret slowly managed to get onto his knees. It was an almost pitiful gesture – to see anyone sitting on their knees and shins, almost slumped back as blood poured down their face and onto their garments, it was truly a sight embodying weakness. Even then, Garret kept his head on a swivel, scanning the surroundings through blurry vision, hoping to find a way to escape his tormentor. It was quite paradoxical, the way his mind seemed to keep seeking salvation even after his body had slumped down and given up, rendered all but numb from pain and fatigue.

And it seemed as though that paradox was _endlessly_ amusing in the eyes of the sinister Warden.

"_Yes,"_ he egged the scholar on, slowly inching forwards as the light in his lantern seemed to shine just a _hint_ brighter. "_Relax, and just… let go…"_ The scythe dangling from the chain he held aloft swayed almost hypnotically. "_It's been fun, little pup,"_ he said, sharp teeth pulled back into a sneering grin, "_even if it was short-lived."_ He paused then, chuckling as he left just a _bit_ more than ten feet between them.

"_I truly hope your soul is more interesting than you are,"_ he said mockingly, that inhuman grin never wavering. With ease spawned by _centuries_ of practice, he swung the chain again, once, twice, just to build some momentum – and with a final downward swing, he brought the scythe down, aiming to decapitate the broken, dazed scholar where he sat.

Despite his dazed, concussed state, Garret saw the gesture promising his demise perfectly – and for the first time in his life, pain's agonising yet comforting warmth was abolished, and the cold, clammy fingers of fear gripped at his heart –

And as the scythe swung, two voices in one body screamed in unison.

* * *

At that moment, with the dark veil of death a mere_ blink _from claiming its latest victim, two souls aligned.

One, a young, starry-eyed spirit, pure of heart and of exceptional will, regained that ever-steely drive that had saved it from so many dangers in times past. It was a will that transcended emotions like fear and doubt, an ingrained strength of spirit etched into the very fibres of its being, a resolution that it would stay alive – no matter the circumstances.

Another, an ancient, free and unrestrained spirit, born of battle and war and moulded and shaped by both, discovered something it had never felt in life; the will, the drive, the _hope_ and _resolution_ not to fight or kill as it had in life, but to _protect_ – to shield something precious from all harm that may befall it.

One wished for salvation.

One wished to _be_ salvation.

And as those two wishes, almost the same yet different as night and day, eclipsed one another, two souls in one body achieved an inaudible, intangible resonance…

And in that resonance, salvation lay in waiting.

* * *

A literal _cloud_ of dark crimson erupted from where the scholar sat kneeling, like a geyser bursting forth from dry, cracked soil. The sinister green scythe disappeared into its swirling, pulsating mass, and stopped dead in tracks without as much as a scrape, let alone the satisfying sound of flesh being rent. Like a bonfire the red smoke arced and twisted, dancing around the bruised, broken form of the Warden's latest 'prey', and barely, just _barely_, one could make out a semblance of a grimacing, livid face amongst the cloudy tendrils. The Warden nearly stumbled, then, as his trusty chain received a pull of _surprising_ strength, and it went so taut from the gesture you could _hear_ the links straining against each other. Thresh's sneering smirk turned into an outraged, vengeful grimace as his own trick was used against him, and tried to pull the chain – and by extension, whatever caught it – clean out of the sudden explosion of smoke, but to no avail; his clawed hand slid down the interlocking links a he pulled, but the chain did not give an inch.

At least, not until whatever held it started moving.

The chain lost most of its tautness as footfalls started drifting from amidst the smoke. Thresh glared at the red cloud with barely concealed ire – after all, it was not every day someone managed to play him for a fool. Soon enough the cowardly scholar's form became visible, strolling out from the clutches of crimson smog with calm, controlled, _precise_ movements; a far, _far_ cry from the snivelling, skittish little pup he had nearly killed seconds before.

He opened his mouth then, intent on expressing both outrage and barely-veiled amusement at how the Demacian pup had fooled him quite so easily – but his planned speech evaporated when he realised that, despite looking similar, this was _not_ the same coward he'd been pursuing across the treeline.

That twisted, mutated black arm, riddled with shard of seemingly bronze metal, now _pulsed_ a lively, almost _bloodthirsty_ shade of red, and every bloom of crimson seemed to give off more and more wisps of that damnable smoke. The man's human hand had wrapped its fingers firmly around the shaft of the scythe, and yet, even on a backdrop of similar colour, the vermillion hue the veins in the limb had taken on shone brighter than even that abhuman arm of his. More smoke _wept_ from the tails of the short, sleeveless duster he wore, and his face…

Gone was the human face that had twisted and contorted into terror-fuelled despair at the sight of the Chain Warden. Gone were the emerald eyes that had shone and quivered under his sadistic mind games, and gone were the lips that had uttered pained grunts and terrified whimpers under the onslaught of his merciless pursuit. Now, beneath a mop of dark hair that drifted as though it were underwater, there was a veneer of even darker smog, a swirling mass of bloody fumes vaguely resembling a face. And on that slightly angular face, two bright eyes of solid white glared at him – and they projected nothing but pure, almost _palpable_ anger.

"_You're no pup…"_ the Chain Warden spoke, his anger evaporating at the potential of what stood before him. "_You're not even human,"_ he deduced, and despite himself, his sharp teeth contorted into a grin once more. "_Two souls in one body…"_ He summarised, the amusement and excitement in his voice seemingly making it _quiver_. "_How delightful. How absolutely _wonderful…"He mused. "_I wonder what your soul offers…"_

"I o_ff_e_r_ y_ou_ no_t_h_in_g," the entity steering the scholar's body responded. "_Not_hi_n_g… b_u_t t_he_ de_at_h _ab_om_in_at_i_o_ns_ l_ik_e y_o_u d_es_er_v_e."

Instead of responding in the manner most would in the face of such an insult, the Chain Warden merely laughed, that same menacing cackle he'd been uttering all match long. There was such _feistiness _in this one, such _confidence _and _eagerness_ beneath that veneer of hatred. Yes, this was obviously why the cowardly little pup had been allowed entrance into the League of Legends – he could have been an _invalid_ for all the Summoners cared, this sudden change, this _spirit_ that had come to the fore… It would make it all worth it.

"_Truly…"_ Thresh responded, downright _giddy_. His clawed hand clamped around the chain spanning the distance between the two of them, and already, his free hand flexed slightly. "_Come then, newcomer…"_ He said daringly. "_Do your _worst!_"_

* * *

Twenty-nine years he'd been alive now, and a very, very large portion of that time had been spent _learning_. Be it of different languages and dialects, or histories or ancient myths and legends, he considered himself a very eloquent person. He was fluent in at least three major languages – not at all a measly achievement due to being on the run at the time – and passable in at least three more. Garret Hillock, in his quest for knowledge and answers, had learned many, many words.

And yet… not _one_ of them could describe what he was feeling now.

He recalled that sinister hook clear as day – even now, the image hovered in his mind, vivid as ever. And yet… It was at that moment, when he realised that Thresh was likely going to kill him – that moment when he cried out, in hope, fear, _desperation_ – that everything changed. He recalled a _burst_ of heat flooding through his body, numbing the pain and easing the discomfort, and then… Had he been an ounce more paranoid, he'd have claimed oblivion had ensued. He could not feel his own body, he realised – it was that it didn't _respond_ to his attempts to move his limbs; it was almost as though he were incapable of doing so.

And despite the sheer ominous nature of the situation, Garret could not bring himself to panic.

That warmth that had _rolled_ over him like a tidal wave persisted, coiling around him like a soothing embrace. It was the most comforting feeling he'd felt since his days as a teenager in Demacia; an embrace that enveloped him wholly, an unspoken reassurance that nothing would ail him while it persisted, an gesture of protection, of _safety_… it was all of these things and more.

Light then filtered into his vision – cracks of bright white on a blood-red expanse, and with a drunken blink, his vision returned to him. Once more he was staring at that grisly-green spectre, the mad Chain Warden standing at the ready, prepared for battle. And yet… even that malicious sneer his sharp teeth had set into could not make cold fear pierce the wonderful warmth he felt. It was as though his fear had _evaporated_ completely.

Then he noticed the slight red tint to his vision.

Had he been able to laugh, he would have. In the midst of that warm safety, Garret felt joy – sheer, unbridled _joy_ – bubbling within him. He saw the tension in the Chain Warden's stance, he saw the clouds of red drifting at his feet, and he saw the sinister sickle-tipped chain clutched tightly in his human hand – an action he could not remember performing – and like a jigsaw, all the little pieces came together in his mind. '_It worked,'_ he thought elatedly. '_It actually worked…'_

"_Yes, Garret…"_ Furia's voice seemed to _echo_ around him, each syllable carried by every little blot of red. "_It worked. Now… I feel… _everything_,"_ she said, a subtle undertone of happiness in her tone. "_I can feel the harsh cold of this place, and the loose soil beneath our feet. I can feel the steel of the chain in my hand, and the weight of a body once more…"_ Her tone was becoming downright _giddy_. "_I cannot describe how wonderful it feels… Thank you, Garret… For making this possible."_

'_I never go back on my word,' _Garret responded, _feeling_ that personifying skew grin on whatever passed as his face in this crimson nothingness. '_Not when I can help it. Now,'_ he said, his tone turning serious – or as serious as it could in the throes of warm bliss he now felt. '_Quinn is still losing ground, Furia,'_ he said, and what he had _hoped_ to be a worrying tone merely came across as a sleepy one – as though he had just woken up remembering an important detail. '_I know it has been ages, since you indulged in battle… but please, we need to help her. Even if Thresh tries to get in our way.'_

"_I understand, Garret,"_ Furia responded confidently, and idly, Garret noted his human arm giving the chain a tug so forceful it made the Chain Warden before them _stumble_. "_Rest now, please… Let me deal with this trash. Nothing will happen to your ally, Garret – I swear it on my honour."_

Garret responded wordlessly, instead opting to smile warmly at the meaningful promise – or at least, he hoped it passed as a warm smile. He couldn't even feel his face, after all. Thresh, he noticed, had regained his footing – and the madman seemed none too pleased about his own chains being used against him. Those sharp fangs had set into yet another sneer, this one easily the most malicious one he'd bared since the scholar had met him.

And yet… the threatening gesture didn't faze Garret in the slightest.

Because the scholar knew, with absolute certainty: The Warden wasn't facing _him_ now.

He was facing Furia.

And Furia was _not_ in the mood to play around now.

* * *

With a violent grunt, Thresh leapt into action – he gave his prized hook a _fiendishly_ powerful tug, and sprang from his feet into a ghostly glide; the chain made short work of reeling him right towards his foe, a sudden gesture that surprised most and threw them for a loop. The links scraped against the winch mounted on his belt as he barrelled towards the Demacian in a blur of green light and clinking steel. Red clouds swirled in his target's mutant hand, forming an intricate, curved double-edged sword – and to his great shock, his victim rushed to meet him halfway.

The first swing from his scythe, a flourish poised to flail the scholar to the side, struck nothing but air as the Demacian outright _vaulted_ over the warden, and a sudden sting in his back elicited a loud growl from him as that cloudy red blade bit clean through his coat and into his person. Ever the pragmatic one, Thresh flailed his lantern backwards, aiming to strike his aggressor across the face as the souls in his lantern poured forth to shield him from more harm. Yet, the strike seemingly could not be more telegraphed. With an _unnaturally_ swift movement wholly unbefitting of the scholar's wiry physique, the blow was dodged without him even breaking stance. That red blade surged forwards again, carving deep, jagged cuts into his soul-forged barrier before shattering like glass.

Thresh capitalised on this, flailing his hook-tipped chain outwards again, and yet, the scholar now proved even more slippery than he was while fleeing. A series of evasions and dodges, uncannily akin to _dancing_ rendered his attacks outright worthless; the sickle soared through thin air, striking places the now-possessed scholar had been _seconds_ before, proving his assault was _seconds too slow_. That mutated arm snapped forwards then, its palm firmly slamming _right_ into the Warden's chest and snapping the bone lining of his coat's lapels. The strike pushed Thresh backwards, drawing a loud hiss from him, and once again he _hurled_ his scythe tipped chain outward in a bid to strike the annoying little pup.

A flash of red burst in the Demacian's hands, and with a loud _clang_ the scythe was parried near-perfectly by two short yet intricate daggers. The possessed pup closed the distance once again, utilising every ounce of the speed his wiry frame could muster, and the daggers danced under the rays of moonlight as their assault commenced. The two blades struck in deft, lethal flurries of smoky steel, tracing lines of red in their wake as the Demacian now almost _danced _around Thresh, evading everything the spectre could throw at him while maintaining a _furious_ pace of attack. Fresh cuts and rips appeared all over Thresh's coat-clad torso every other second, and the attacks stung despite his undeath – as though the blades cut into his very being.

"_Enough of this!"_ He hissed, leaping backwards as more souls rose from his opened lantern to shield him from the relentless assault. With a monstrous growl he _slammed_ his lantern down on the ground, and with a merry bout of whispers the souls within _seeped_ into the ground, tainting it with their eons of agony. They rose from the earth around them in a pentagonal box, a prison built from the agony of the thousands jailed in his lantern, and in the misty green walls their agonised faces drifted clear as day, mouths agape and eyes screwed shut. "_You play by _my_ rules now!"_ He roared at his attacker. "_And now I say you _die_!_"

Once again he charged at the possessed man, forgoing any semblance of ranged attack as he clutched his scythe by its shaft. He steered himself towards his aggressor, aiming to ram the insolent little child into the very souls he'd tormented – the backlash of pain and agony should be enough to afford him time to strike, after all – but once more, whatever now steered the Demacian's body proved much, much quicker in action – he deftly evaded to the right, and the twin daggers in his hands _pulsed_ and shifted into something else entirely, and Thresh could only ram his heels into the earth and hurtle himself aside to evade the sharp edge of the halberd that threatened to disembowel him in mid-charge. It _infuriated_ him, how that clueless, worthless pup could suddenly wield an entire arsenal without pause.

The Demacian man charged forwards, halberd held outstretched behind him with one hand as the other hand spread to the side, balancing his charge. Thresh tried to intercept with a well-timed hook, hoping to throw the aggressor off-course, but even that was swatted aside by an almost majestic twirling attack from the polearm. It spun above the possessed man's head effortlessly, as though the little pup had wielded it since birth, before _snapping_ downwards with enough force to cut clean through the Warden's barrier of souls. The crimson edge _slammed_ into his exposed skull, carving a trench in the bone from his forehead down to his cheekbone, and the Warden roared in pain as he backpedalled desperately.

With a pained moan, the prison of souls quickly dispersed – leaving the possessed man with much, _much_ more room to manoeuvre his weapons.

The polearm extended in length, going from about five feet all the way to a good seven, and the axe-blade adjacent to the spear-like tip adjusted to the sudden scale. The Demacian came at Thresh in a whirlwind of spinning violence, twirling the heavy weapon clockwise and counter-clockwise as though it weighed less than a feather. Once more it struck home, carving a deep gash into his side which wept green flame, and that mortal strike was followed up with a blow from the blunt end of the pole, right between the Warden's eyes.

The force behind the strike knocked the spectre clean off his feet, and in a desperate bid to regain his balance his hurled his chain outwards once more. The possessed scholar saw this, and with a loud _crack_ the blunt end of the halberd split into a thin, curving hook. The polearm twirled again, and the hook effortlessly slipped into one of the links, and in doing so, jerked the chain off course, away from something sturdy enough to anchor Thresh's balance. As the spectre slammed down onto the ground, the Demacian scholar hopped backwards, first once, then twice, then thrice, drawing the chain out more and more as he went, and as soon as the links spanned about ten feet, he moved – a short dash forwards was followed by him _slamming_ the tip of the halberd into the ground, using the weapon to vault himself into the air. As it shattered under his weight he didn't waste a single moment, and the broken fragments quickly reformed into a large warhammer – one which he brought down _right_ onto the exposed chain links.

Thresh felt a bit of his resolve shatter in tandem with the steel chain.

The warhammer shattered as well, returning to its cloudy reagent form, and the possessed Demacian turned a livid gaze at him, those white eyes still slanted into a sharp glare. The mutated arm grabbed the severed chain tightly, and with a short set of jerks and tugs _scarily_ reminiscent of Thresh's own handiwork, spun the chain between his two hands – letting the scythe dangle ominously in the breeze.

Thresh then realised exactly _how_ close the aberration was to him.

"_What… What are you?!"_ He demanded, scrambling to his feet. It was _enraging,_ seeing his own instrument of pain and suffering turned against him by a _thing_ that didn't even bother speaking to him. "_You move unlike most humans… And definitely unlike a cowardly little pup! What are you?!"_

"_Dr_eg_s_ l_ik_e _y_o_u_," the possessed man spoke, in that broken, mixed tone, and only now Thresh heard the distinctly feminine edge to the echo, "d_es_er_v_e _n_o a_nsw_ers o_r_ r_e_a_so_ns. _A_ll _yo_u d_es_e_rv_e is d_ea_t_h_." And without even _waiting_ for a response, the scholar charged forwards. The chain in that twisted hand unfurled into a doom-bringing whip tipped with a sick edge that spelt nothing but pain. In a panic, Thresh raised his lantern again, and summoned as many souls as he could to shield him from harm. His chain coiled, the scythe arcing upwards like a cobra poised to strike, and with a loud grunt the Demacian swung the weapon, and it struck, bolting forwards like a lethal bite aimed right at his head.

The Warden believed the souls of the damned would shield him, as they did from any other weapon.

But no amount of souls could save him from his own chains.

The scythe _tore_ into his skull with a loud, _vicious_ crack, and bone parted under its sharp edge. As the tool buried itself up to the shaft in Thresh's exposed, flaming skull, the ethereal pain from the attack halted the Warden from doing _anything_ save scream in unbridled fury and agony. The possessed Demacian gave the chain a powerful tug, plucking Thresh clean off his feet and sending him sprawling across the now tormented earth. He tried to will himself into moving, fighting against the wrathful pain seeping down his spine and into the very roots of his being – but two heavy boots slammed down on his form, one on his lower back and one on his free hand. The chain was tugged upwards, and through sheer agony Thresh's back arced upwards as far as it could go under the malevolent guidance. Eventually, he could go no further – but the chain kept pulling, and the scythe chipped more and more of his skull away as it threatened to _burst_ from his skull in an explosion of bone splinters.

Then that mutated, pulsating arm wrapped around his skull – the thumb found grip just beneath his chain like dreadlocks, and two fingers found unflinching holds, one in his eye socket and one just above the rim of his fangs. Both the hand and the chain _pulled_, then, and a loud, straining creak from Thresh's neck ushered a startled, strangled cry of outrage and panic from him. The possessed man's intent had become clear – Thresh had treated the possessor with the same caution he had treated the cowardly scholar with…

…and now he was paying the price for it.

The hand pulled again, twisting his head into an uncomfortable angle and holding it there despite his cries to stop. The scythe still chipped away at his skull, causing small splinters and fragments to tumble down onto the soil. "_Ab_o_m_in_at_io_ns_ li_k_e _yo_u," the possessor spoke, his tone one of disgust and hate, "d_es_er_v_e n_oth_i_n_g b_u_t _de_a_t_h," he repeated. Once more the hand tugged, and a loud pop drew another strangled yelp from the Warden. "_Le_t t_h_i_s_ _be_ yo_ur_ _le_sso_n_, _w_r_et_ch," the Demacian spoke, in that ever-ominous mixed tone. "_M_y h_os_t… i_s_ **n**_**o**_**t** _y_ou_r_ p_la_yt_h_i_ng_!"

And then, with a final, powerful tug from both the scythe-tipped chain and the deceptively powerful twisted limb, and a final, agonising roar of pain from the fallen warden, Thresh's skull was ripped clean off his shoulders, and the green fires and lights in his being faded to black.

* * *

With a pained gasp, Quinn tumbled out of the vault she'd done to escape certain death once again, and stumbled slightly as she tried to regain her footing. The lack of her headgear had allowed a rather nasty cut to appear on her forehead, and the raven hairs plastering themselves to her sweat-matted forehead merely agitated it that much more. Her rest was short lived as she had to dive to the side once again, just as a colossal axe decimated the tree she was leaning against. Her gasps became both panicked and fatigued, as a downright relentless assault from Noxus' undead juggernaut kept her on her toes.

Sion, she despairingly noticed, wasn't tiring. Her crossbow, at this point, was merely annoying him – even the shot she had landed on his brow, which had obviously, _obviously_ pierced his skull, only managed to make the titan _that_ much more angry. She was damaging him greatly, yes – several dozens of bolts dotted his alabaster frame, protruding from grotesquely knotted muscle like small spines. But she wasn't _affecting_ him – she wasn't tiring him out, like he was doing to her. Her stamina reserves were getting low, and it was only a matter of time before an errant strike from the giant left her broken and open for a killing blow.

She vaulted backwards again, hoping to place some distance between herself and Sion. She fell back into her crouched posture the moment her feet hit the ground, and her keen eyes, undaunted by fatigue and ache, scanned the area ahead. The dust kicked up by Sion's powerful strike slowly receded, and the alabaster monster rose to his full, intimidating height. Those red eyes glared fiery hatred at her, and the furrowed brow made the bolt protruding from it strain and almost snap. He uttered a low, animalistic growl as turned to face her squarely. "Is running all you can do?!" He roared at her, gripping his axe with both hands. "Pathetic!"

Quinn didn't bother responding – taunts and banter spelled time wasted, time that could have been used to gain advantage or repositioning. Instead, she merely crouched even lower, coiling her toned legs in preparation for another evade, and aimed her crossbow at the mad titan.

Sion tensed in reaction to the physical threat, and readied himself for another unstoppable charge at his target.

For but a moment, deathly silence settled on the Treeline as the two stared each other down.

That silence was then crisply broken, by sound of rattling chains, and something _heavy_ soaring through the sky. The clearing they were in was illuminated by eerie moonlight, and those beams of light made Quinn notice a blotched, jagged shadow moving past her. Just as she contemplated turning her gaze up to see what had just soared over her, the object in question landed in front of Sion with a rattling thud, before rolling to a halt. Quinn, despite herself, felt her stomach churn slightly at the sight.

There, at the Undead Juggernaut's feet, lay the mangled, lightless, _lifeless_ skull of Thresh, the feared Chain Warden.

Sion frowned at the sight of his slain ally's head, and with a bestial growl leaking murderous intent, he raised his metal peg-leg and stomped on the discarded skull, powdering it under his colossal strength. "Weakling…" He muttered darkly, as he looked in the direction the skull was thrown from.

The snapping of twigs, plus that ever-familiar broadcast of instinct from her Summoner, notified her that her ally had just stepped into the clearing. She looked to the side, and immediately recognised the dark duster and long, messy hair. "Garret…" She called to him, somewhat warily. She had never thought Garret to be capable of such a cruel execution – but when the scholar turned to face her, revealing an angular face comprised of red smoke, and two sharp, white eyes glowing in amusement and apprehension, she realised Thresh's death was not Garret's doing at all.

That was her, then. Furia, as Garret had called her.

Despite her apprehension at her reunion with the murderous spirit, she couldn't help the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. They had done it – their transition was successful.

"_N_o_t_ q_ui_te," Furia spoke, in that same fragmented, broken mix of male and feminine voices. She regarded Quinn with a coy type of acknowledgement, as though her very existence amused the she-spirit. "H_e_ _is_ r_es_ti_n_g… a_s_ _h_e s_ho_u_l_d b_e_. C_an_ _y_ou _fi_gh_t_?" The battle-eager spirit asked Quinn. "_O_r d_o_ _yo_u r_eq_u_ir_e t_im_e t_o_ _rec_ov_e_r?"

"I…" She started, somewhat shakily, before turning her gaze back to Sion. The pale berserker was glaring at Furia with a level of anger and murderous intent he often reserved for Demacians and Demacians alone – and going by the errant twitches of his brow, it seemed the titan would not be idle for much longer. She wanted to warn the lady of battle beside her, tell her that Sion was, in life, a warrior standing head-and-shoulders above even Demacia's best, and how even superior numbers should be wary of the juggernaut's strength and endurance. But the sudden snapping of trees overhead, accompanied by a loud, victorious screech, halted her thoughts in their tracks. She immediately held out her arm, deciding both that making Valor come to _her_ was easier than looking for him, and that taking her eyes off Sion _now_ was a terrible, terrible idea.

"_H_e _in_ti_m_id_at_es _yo_u?" Furia asked beside her, assuming a combat stance. With a flash of red and a puff of smoke, two curved shortswords appeared in her hands, one held in reverse-grip.

"He is… He's called a juggernaut for a reason," Quinn acknowledged as Valor swooped down an perched on her arm, his own body tensed and ready to launch forwards at the pale titan at a moment's notice. "We'll need to kill him twice," she said shakily, "if we want him out of our hair."

"_Tw_ic_e_…" Furia mused, twirling her blades slowly, as though getting a better feel for their weight. "H_ow_ _e_xc_iti_ng… _A_ _p_it_y_ h_e_ is _und_e_a_d s_cu_m."

"That 'undead scum' still ain't gonna have any problems kicking your ass, you crazy bitch."

Both Furia and Quinn froze as the confident, boisterous voice echoed from behind them, and even Valor uttered something akin to a resigned squawk. With varying levels of emotion, exasperation on Quinn's part and outright _giddiness_ on Furia's, the two of them turned to face the speaker. Even the pale titan before them faced the new contender, and impossibly, his expression of rage and hatred intensified as the third member of his enemies' team entered the clearing, barely fazed at the prospect of facing one of Noxus' mightiest warriors.

"Yo," Jax spoke confidently, bracing his lamppost across his shoulders. "Looks like you could use some help there, Chickadee." The six lenses of his helm shone brightly, and despite his casual stance, his lamppost was burning brightly, sending wisps of smoke rising up into the dark air. "I see you and Garret managed to pull off a switcheroo. That's good, that's good. Maybe after killing these idiots you can try chilling the fuck out for a while," he said, a hint of good-natured ribbing hidden in his mock-scolding tone. "I saw Thresh's body back there, y'know. You ripped his head off? Damn. That's brutal, lady."

"_N_o_t_ b_ru_t_al_ en_o_u_gh_," Furia muttered darkly, turning her attention back to the lumbering juggernaut before them. "_H_i_s_ d_ea_th w_a_s _qu_ic_k_ o_nl_y b_eca_us_e_ o_u_r _a_l_l_y w_a_s in _dan_ge_r_."

For but a moment, Quinn realised what Garret had meant when he said Furia was 'complex in her simplicity'. One moment she spoke about how undead were scum, and how ripping one's head clean off was apparently too painless a death – and yet, in that same breath, the ancient spirit showed she also had her own allies in mind. It was a truly, truly warped code of honour and morality – one that made the battle-crazed spirit more complicated than ever.

"Yeah, I thought you'd say something fucked up like that," Jax said with a shrug, taking his place between the Ranger and the possessed scholar. He looked towards Sion's immense form, taking in the expression of murderous rage and bloodlust. "So what's it gonna be, buddy," he asked the juggernaut. "Your teammates are dead. So… You gonna run back to your little base," he asked smugly. "Or are you gonna stay here, and get thrashed?"

"I do _not run…_" The alabaster behemoth responded with a snarling voice. "Not from weaklings like _you!_" He roared, and the furnace mounted in his stomach pulsed sheer power outwards. "I do not fear death!" He growled, as the crimson glow in the hole in stomach intensified, spreading its light through his veins as a bloody veneer swirled around him, forming a grotesque barrier of blood and pain around him. "And I _do not fear you! I'll crush you all!"_

The ground beneath Sion's feet _cracked_ as he kicked off, the loud _thud_ of his peg leg slamming against the earth sending a deep, metallic boom all across the Treeline. His pale skin glowed as his vein shone a deep, sinister red, and soon his entire being was wreathed in the flames of unstoppable, unshakeable wrath. One arm was braced before the titan, just in front of his face, while the other kept his colossal axe at the ready – edge primed, and arm tensed.

Quinn dashed to the side immediately, noticing how her entire group had split under the threat of Sion's relentless, unstoppable onslaught. It was probably for the better – meeting the Undead Juggernaut halfway had proven to be the downfall of many skilled warriors in the League. Sion was just _that_ powerful – it was much smarter, and much more effective, to surround him.

Furia, noticing how the group split apart, chose wisely to steer Garret's body away from the raging behemoth as well. The Chain Warden was one thing – _he_ was a madman, more intent on torturing his victims, utilising pain and attrition to control the ebb and flow of the battle. This beast, though… This beast was different. Even taking a single blow from one of its mighty strikes was too great a risk – Garret's body, while speedy and limber, was still frail, and it seemed as though frailty was a critical weakness before the pale monster they now fought.

With an explosion of heated violence and power, Sion's charge halted, decimating the area where he stopped. Immediately, the gang took the opportunity to dogpile him – Jax's lamppost slammed into the side of the juggernaut's face just as he had looked around, seeking a target, and any reaction the attack might have drawn out was cut short when Furia took her blades to the back of the titan's good knee. They scraped off the barrier of bloody rage, cracking as they struck in a relentless flurry, and _one_ managed to drive through the dome and into deadened flesh just before the shattered. Sion flung his axe-hand outward in a backhanded manner, hoping to cleave the annoying little bug in twine – an attack Furia saw coming. She hopped back, thinking the distance was adequate enough to save Garret's body from repercussion – but the sheer _force_ behind the swing kicked up a shockwave that lifted the wiry scholar's form clean off its feet, and flung it flush into one of the trees, causing a loud _snap_ to be heard.

The titan's eyes had barely settled on its first victim, and already another offensive had drawn his attention away. Valor's sharp talons tore at Sion's eyes as Quinn rained more bolts down on the beastly warrior from afar. She had heard Garret's ribs snap like twigs as his body hit the tree, and knew the injury would keep him and Furia rooted in place long enough for Sion to land a fatal blow. That could not be allowed – so she battled through fatigue and aching pains, keeping her aim steady and true despite being fairly taxed already. Yet even the duo's combined attack could not halt Noxus' greatest warrior for long. "_You think this hurts me?!"_ The giant roared, and the blood-hued dome around him suddenly intensified – Quinn recognised the occurrence immediately, and attempted to call out to Valor, but she was too late. With a loud bellow, Sion detonated the dome around him, causing a massive outward blast of power that knocked the giant eagle out of the air, eliciting a pained screech from him.

For a moment, it seemed as though Sion would ignore Quinn's attacks altogether, and execute Valor with a single great cleave from his axe – but Valor had barely touched the ground when Jax had leapt back into the fray, picking up on the eagle's assault, and Quinn noticed Furia had gotten back into the fight as well, now toting a bastard sword in one hand and a short spear in the other.

Of their entire group, Jax was the one best suited to assaulting Sion directly – as could be expected from the Grandmaster at Arms. The titanic warrior's attempts at smearing the mercenary all over the ground were met with quick, fluid, almost _effortless_ evasions as a twirling brass lamppost rained strikes on Sion's pale form by the _dozen _per moment. Every now and then the lamp would shine just a _bit_ brighter, and under the Grandmaster's might the weapon struck _that_ _much harder_ – the blows even seemed to stagger the unstoppable beast. Sion's grunts of pain quickly turned into growls of anger, and soon enough evolved into a loud roar of unbridled hate. The juggernaut's arms tensed, gripping his axe tightly, and raised it high above his head, aiming to shatter both Jax and the ground he stood on – but the Grandmaster cut the attack down before it even began; two quick strikes to the stomach, one to the chest, and one _devastating_ strike to the jaw sent the alabaster warrior staggering backwards, clutching at the gaping wounds on his jaw where the crown-like adornment had been ripped clean off.

Sion's outrage at the injury was short lived – Furia picked up the assault where Jax left off, _hurling_ the short spear clean into the glowing furnace in the titan's stomach as she charged at him. The spear seemingly exploded as it pierced the red glow, and a _tremor_ of pain shook Sion's core as he howled in both outrage and agony. The ancient spirit of war capitalised on this pause, steering Garret's body into a flurry of attacks that his wiry frame should not be capable of pulling off. Even in the chaos, the scholar's bones groaned under the strain. Furia hopped onto the giant's bent knee, using the momentum behind the leap to drive the bastard sword into Sion's ribcage, in that _one_ weak spot where pale flesh met necromantic steel. The stitches gave way instantly, and blood seeped from the giant's body – Sion howled again, chucking his axe aside and pouring every ounce of his warrior's willpower into crushing the pathetic bug that had harmed him with his bare hands.

The assault intensified then – Jax joined Furia in the relentless attack on the implacable warrior, and the two of them danced and zipped around Sion's colossal frame with speed and agility the Noxian destroyer could not hope to match. Howls of outrage became roars of frustration as white skin turned a dark, sinister red under sheer fury and rage, and the undead behemoth's attacks became _that_ much faster and more reckless for it. In his blind berserker rage he did not even notice the bolts being fired at him changing target – instead of vital organs like the heart and brain, they now targeted the source of his sustenance; they either pierced the stitching around the soul furnace, or punched into its core completely, each shot making the mad warrior's body quake with pain.

Jax managed to land the first crippling shot – as Sion had his back turned to the Grandmaster, trying to swat Furia out of her nimble evasive dance, Jax had slammed his lamppost down on the ground, and the fire within it _flared_ as wisps of smoke and light coated his form. With a single, precise leap, Jax's lamppost slammed into the back of the soul furnace, just below Sion's spine – and the metal there folded like paper before cracking like glass.

Sion's deafening roar of indescribable agony shook the very magic that sustained the Treeline.

He slumped to his knees, jaw agape in a soundless cry of crippling pain, and his fingers clenched around the soil beneath him with such force it made wisps of dust rise from between the digits. He started heaving then, like a mad beast struggling to breathe, before his fists lit up pure red, _smoking_ from the physical, tangible fires of rage coursing through his veins. Reddened skin turned black as night as the behemoth 'died', and the mindless mania and killing intent that had been tempered by the furnace commanded his body to act, to _kill_, despite death claiming it. With an inelegant, uneven, bleating roar, Sion rose again, his gaze burning with murderous mindlessness.

"One down," Jax said confidently. "Don't push yourselves. Keep him back and keep him flailing – he'll burn himself out eventually."

Sion's head snapped towards Jax the moment the mercenary had spoken, and already the monster was surging towards him, intent on snapping him two. The titan's fists swung furiously, each carrying enough strength to sunder trees and shatter stone, and still, not one connected – Jax was simply too evasive. The Grandmaster ended his series of dodges with a _crushing_ strike to the death-defying warrior's face, and utilised the stagger he'd caused to hop away to safety. Sion had shrugged the dazing blow off in scant seconds, and already, his sights were set on the mercenary once more.

Then a short, crimson spear pierced the tendon of his good leg, a crippling blow, and the great warrior was sent tumbling to the ground. Even that did not stop the giant completely – with another furious bellow he tried to _crawl_ towards the dark-clad Grandmaster, roaring at the top of his lungs as he went. It was a gesture that earned a chuckle from Jax, and he casually braced his lamppost across his shoulder again, and toed at the ground while waiting. The mockery only made the fallen titan that much angrier, for a brief _second_ his crawl became more frantic, more rushed.

Then the light shining in the soul furnace slowly died.

And with a final murderous howl, his hand still outstretched in a futile attempt to grasp the Grandmaster and destroy him utterly, the Undead Juggernaut died again, becoming deathly still and unmoving as the mists of the Treeline wafted over his form.

"Well that's that," Jax nodded, "and good fuckin' riddance. Honestly, this enemy team is one of the biggest pains in the ass imaginable," he said irritably as he turned to face his allies. Quinn had scrambled to scoop Valor up as soon as Sion had died the first time, and now cradled the great eagle in her arms. Garret – or in this case, Furia – was standing beside her. His – _her? What the shit…? _– twisted black arm held a scimitar quite tightly, while the human arm cradled the body's ribs. "Hurts, don't it?" he asked as he strolled over to her. "Bet pain ain't one o' the things you missed, is it?"

"_I_ f_el_t n_o_t_hi_n_g_ f_or_… f_o_r _ce_nt_ur_ie_s_," Furia responded, in that same creepy-as-shit two-voices-as-one way. "E_ve_n p_a_in _is_ go_od_… E_v_e_n_ pa_in_ i_s_ b_e_t_te_r th_a_n _**no**_**t**_**h**_**in**_**g**_…"

"Yeah, I don't think Garret's gonna agree with you anytime soon," Jax shook his head. "Still, good work out there. Like I said I saw that spooky asshole's corpse. Coulda been done a bit cleaner, but hey, to each his own. Job well done nonetheless and all that praising, good-natured bullshit the Summoners want me to say," he said with a shrug. "So what happens now?"

"_I_ m_us_t r_e_c_ed_e," Furia responded. "I _ca_n f_ee_l _i_t… _Ou_r tr_a_ns_iti_o_n_ ta_xe_s _Gar_ret'_s _bo_dy_… T_o_ _re_ma_i_n t_h_i_s_ w_ay_ is _da_n_g_er_ou_s."

"Well, shit," Jax said bitterly. "Just when ya thought you had it figured out, huh. At least tell me you know how to come back out again?" He asked critically. Whether he sounded pushy or not didn't exactly matter to him now – with Sion, Kayle's sister _and_ that spooky asshole respawning soon, Jax wasn't exactly in the mood to fight them with nobody but a busted-up Ranger and a plucked chicken as backup.

"We achieved resonance," Furia answered. "We can transition again." She paused for a moment, before speaking again. "It is good you are here. When I fought… Garret's body is not used to such movements. He will be ailed by more than broken bones when I recede. It was…" She trailed off again, pondering her words, before continuing. "It was exciting, fighting by your side. I cannot wait to meet you in battle."

"Yeah, well, hope you ain't expecting me to say 'likewise', lady," Jax responded, strolling over and flinging Garret's twisted arm over his shoulders, preparing to add some support once the pain hit home. The crimson scimitar dispersed immediately, and the smoke seeped back into the black limb. "Because you still freak me out," he said plainly. "Still. You kept Poet Boy safe and sound all this time. You're cool. Freaky and fucking insane… but cool."

Furia, unexpectedly, merely uttered a short, off-key chuckle, before the smoke comprising her angular face dispersed. All the red around the scholar's form receded into that spiky arm, and within moments, emerald eyes blinked fatigue away. "So it's over… I did n-grgh!" The moment Garret had spoken and affirmed he was indeed in control again, he outright _spasmed_ where he stood, and if it weren't for the support Jax was offering the scholar would have keeled over immediately. "_Oh gods above…"_ He whined pitifully.

"Easy there bud," Jax said with a hearty chuckle. "You got right banged up before Little Miss Crazy took over. Hell, you got right banged up afterwards as well. I think your left ribcage resembled a jigsaw puzzle, by the way. Nothing serious."

"_Gooooods…"_ Garret whined again, wheezing as he gasped for breath. "What is this even… I hurt in places I can't even feeeeeel…" He said in between pained groans and squeaks. "Did I die…?" He asked innocently. "Please tell me I died and that this is temporary…"

"Nope, you're still kickin', bud," Jax said with another good-natured chuckle. "But it _is_ temporary. Your Summoner should be kickin' your recovery up a bit," he said smoothly, "and if Chickadee's Summoner stops being an asshole they can kick it up several gears. Hey Chickadee," Jax turned to Quinn, who was already walking towards them, her pensive expression signalling she knew exactly where the conversation was heading. "Tell your Summoner to pull his finger out and pop out the good stuff already."

"I can't _tell_ my Summoner anything, Jax," Quinn responded icily, although she did make an effort to help Valor perch himself steadily on her arm. "Just a minute," she said, fidgeting with what looked worryingly like a snapped wing, apparently trying to set it. The process drew several pained squeaks from the usually majestic bird of prey, but soon enough, the task was over. "There we go," she said, nodding approvingly. "Garret, give me your hand," she said, extending an open palm.

"I don't… I don't think I can," Garret groaned. "Really I don't, I cannot even… I might cry. Really, I might. _Gods_ above, I almost regret this…" He wheezed. Quinn tried to frown at first, but apparently even Rangers weren't immune to finding situations darkly amusing, and couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips. Taking the initiative, she reached out and grasped the scholar's human hand, drawing a soft yelp from him as she accidentally nudged his shattered ribs. His groan of pain quickly turned into a blissful hum, though, as the Summoner enveloped them in a burst of ethereal magics. Torn muscles eased and relaxed and broken bones mended under the cloud of arcane green light, and even the scholar's nose quickly snapped back into place as the dried blood outright evaporated. "That…" He mumbled, almost sleepily. "That is wonderful, that is… Can this, can we, can the match end now? Please? This, This right here is joyous. Gods above…"

The admission drew a loud laugh from Jax, and even Quinn chuckled softly. Valor, who had been part of the healing cloud as well, gleefully and gracefully stretched his wings out, before uttering a happy screech and taking flight again, right as rain. The magics dispersed then, and Jax let go of Garret so the scholar could steady himself again. "Gods above, I thought I knew pain," he muttered darkly. "These 'Fields of Justice' seem intent on proving me wrong around every corner," he summarised. "Nonetheless, the transition… Well the after-effects were dreadful, but… the switch itself was quite pleasant," he said softly, smiling, and that ever eye-catching red hoop quickly appeared around his irises. "What happens now?" He asked, shifting his weight between legs. "The pain is gone but I still feel somewhat tired – I am assuming the healing we received from the Summoners is only finite?"

"Yup, got it in one," Jax said, merrily swinging his lamppost. "Now we've got ourselves a small window. We put our boots up their whole team's collective ass, but they ain't staying dead for long. They'll be back – first that mage bitch, then the spooky asshole, and then our undying friend over here," he said, motioning to Sion's corpse. "If we're gonna win, we gotta do it _now_. Any idea how far we are from their Nexus?"

"A couple of minutes," Quinn answered, watching Valor's flight patterns. "Less if we move quickly."

"Good," Jax nodded. "You down for one more bout, bud?" He asked Garret. "Just think – one more little brawl and this whole fight's over – experiment: success. Your lady-friend said you can pull another switcheroo?"

"Yes," Garret nodded resolutely, "yes, I… I found the missing link. If our emotions eclipse perfectly the transition is near seamless," he said, and inwardly he already felt that ever-pleasant tug of warmth at his soul – as though Furia were armed and ready, waiting on his command. He knew exactly which of their emotions eclipsed now: the drive for victory, for triumph over the enemy. Their motives for such a desire differed – Garret wished for nothing more than to leave this hellish place, and Furia wished for another taste of glorious battle. Two entirely different wishes, and yet – they spawned the same goal. "The transition is ready," Garret nodded. "You give me the signal, and Furia will come out again."

"Great stuff," Jax said, his smirk audible. He quickly walked in the direction Valor was indicating, stopping at the edge of the twisting trees. "Well?" He asked. "Shall we go kick their teeth in again?"

The decision, Garret realised, had been all but unanimous – Quinn was already at Jax's side, and apart from the warmth flooding him intensifying by the _smallest_ of margins, he felt that ever familiar tingling in the back of his head, and that burst of instinct that certainly wasn't his own; it seemed even Furia and his Summoner agreed with the notion of finishing this. With that in mind, Garret strolled forwards, his confidence restored, reinforced and riveted in place.

"Yes," he said with a skew smile. "I am quite sick of this place. Let's end this."

* * *

"Who was the mage, by the way?" Quinn asked as the team of three darted through the underbrush. Quinn and Garret easily navigated the harsh undergrowth, spawned from years of tracking and years of running _from_ trackers respectively, but Jax it seemed had a bit of trouble keeping up to them. Thus, they weren't going as fast as they could – but the alternative of leaving Jax behind and darting ahead was much too daunting for them to complain.

"Morgana," Jax muttered under his breath as he swatted a stray branch away with him lamppost. "And I don't mean to make you worry – I mean, _I'm_ not worried 'cause I don't give a damn about her, but I _might_ just have pissed her off."

"What did you do?" Quinn asked irately.

"I… may or may not have implied that Kayle is way, way hotter than she is."

"Oh, for… _Why_ would do that?!" Quinn demanded.

"What? It's true!" Jax shrugged nonchalantly. "Worse cast scenario, she ignores all your asses and comes right at me. Which might be a good thing, now that I think about it," he said smugly. "Look at it this way: That fugly woman and Ol' Spooky died way, _way_ before Sion did – now Thresh, he's a petty little fucker, it's likely he'll have some beef with Garret's lady-friend for, y'know, pincushioning his face and all that. Morgana, as we know, might come right at me, because y'know, she's kinda pissed and also I'm The Champ, so it's in the bag she finds me irresistible. Either way!" He said, ignoring the pained groaned his arrogance elicited from Quinn and Garret. "How's this for a plan: I go for Morgana, Garret's crazy lady-friend deals with Thresh, and while their preoccupied with us and Sion's preoccupied with, oh, _being dead_ and all, Chickadee here can start chipping away at their Nexus."

"That is… actually quite a good plan," Garret mused, vaulting over a fallen tree.

"Don't stroke his ego," Quinn admonished him. "And what if we get back and Sion's already there? What then, mister 'Champ'?"

"Then we do the same thing we just did back there. Get rid of the mage and Ol' Spooky first, then wail on Sion until he falls over. Then we win. Easy."

"There was nothing 'easy' about it," Quinn groused, slicking back her hair. Her headgear had been lost in the fight against Sion.

"That's just 'cause you ain't me, Chickadee," Jax said smugly.

"Much as I would hate to interrupt your obviously _riveting_ conversation," Garret interrupted them, "but I do believe that we're approaching the enemy Nexus."

The walls looming in the distance, hiding the source of the bright, arcane pillar of light piercing the dark sky, indeed proved his statement to be correct. There was a deathly silence to the place – even the usually erratic breeze the Treeline was known for had died down. However, the barest _hints_ of sickly green light poking out above the walls told them that at the very _least_, the Chain Warden had been revived, and was now guarding their Nexus _loyally_. "Looks like Ol' Spooky's back," Jax mused. "Say, Garret. Your lady-friend ready yet?"

"She has been ready since the Summoner healed us," Garret said, before slowing to a stop. The red around his irises intensified and expanding, and his dark, spiky arm pulsed a _bright_ shade of vermillion, illuminating the knotting muscles beneath the dark skin. "Well… I guess I will be seeing you all once we've won," he said with a slightly confident smile. Any response Quinn and Jax might have wanted to offer was cut off as Garret was enveloped by the crimson smoke that fabricated weapons for him so frequently. It writhed in place for but a _moment_ before receding completely, and while the scholar's physical form remained unchanged, the mask of cloudy red that now covered his face spoke volumes to the contrary.

Once more, Furia was in control – and going by the shaky breath she had just released, she was _quite_ eager. "_On_c_e_ m_or_e i_n_t_o_ _th_e f_ra_y…" She mused. "_H_o_w_ w_ond_e_rf_u_l_…"

"That's the spirit," Jax said with a hearty chuckle, stopping just as the trio reached the stairs leading up to the enemy camp. "So is the plan all set?"

"In_d_e_ed_," Furia responded. "L_ea_ve t_h_e u_nd_e_a_d t_hr_a_l_l to _me_. I _wi_ll e_n_d _hi_m s_wi_f_tl_y… de_sp_it_e_ m_y_ w_is_he_s_ to m_ak_e h_i_m s_uf_f_e_r."

"Yeah that's not creepy at all," Jax said glibly. "Not at all. Eh, beggars can't be choosers. 'Sides, I've fought with freakier people," he admitted offhandedly. "You all ready to go win this?" He asked, looking towards his comrades. Upon receiving an affirmative nod from Quinn and a downright _bloodthirsty_ chuckle from Furia-in-Garret's-Body, he readied his lamppost. The lamp itself flared to life, burning brightly in the darkness. Quinn's repeating crossbow cocked itself, ready to fire at a moment's notice, and Furia fashioned a sick looking halberd from the smoke surrounding her. Or him. Or Garret's body.

Dammit.

Shaking his head, he took up his stance.

"Alright then," he said firmly. "Let's do this."

* * *

The assault on the exposed Nexus could only be described as an all-out _invasion_. The moment Valor had swooped across the low walls of the small camp, the trio had burst into the clearing with one intention: ending this battle before the tables could turn on them. Furia, being in control of one of the faster bodies in the group, immediately proceeded to single out the Chain Warden. The sickly-green spectre stood before one of the prongs jutting out from the Nexus' base structure, a look of unbridled ire etched into his ghostly face. When he saw that _creature_ possessing the cowardly Demacian's body charging at him again, he decided to go on the offensive _right_ from the start, forgoing his use of control and attrition in favour of _maiming_ the upstart monster that had so easily ripped his head off.

Beside him, Furia noticed another angelic woman, similar yet _completely_ different from the one she had met in Garret's mindscape – and going by the sneer on her face, she wasn't pleased at seeing Jax again either. She summoned a volley of twisting, writing dark orbs and _hurled_ them towards Jax, and a flick of her wrist caused the very stone between the two of them to turn _corrupt_ and tormented, lashing out with vile taint at anyone foolish enough to tread upon it.

But that twisted angel was not her target.

Furia locked eyes with the ghostly madman as she surged towards him, and just as she anticipated, that ever-ominous sickle-tipped chain came soaring towards her. She caught it once again, without trouble, and just as predicted, the ghostly sadist came gliding towards her once again. She opted for a different strategy – she summoned a needle-thin sword to her hand, wove it through a handful of the chain's links and drove it right into the ground before ducking out of the way. The Chain Warden had learned from his mistakes, _immediately_ summoning some souls from his lantern to shield him as he slammed it down onto the ground again. The hexagonal prison rose from between the stones again, trapping the two in a deadly arena.

"_I do believe,"_ Thresh spoke, struggling with his pinned chain as he kept his gaze on his aggressor, "_that I owe you and your _cowardly_ little host a decapitation – and I assure you,"_ he spat, "_it will _not_ be quick!"_

Furia did not bother responding – she twirled the halberd before her and charged, angling it behind her so she could initiate with a sweeping attack. The rapier-like blade pinning the spectre's chain to the ground finally shattered, and with an enraged growl he flailed his scythe outwards, intending to flay his attacker where they stood. Furia spun on her heel, almost pirouetting around the attack, and the halberd lashed out at Thresh in a sick series of spinning attacks. Three strikes bounced off the soul-forged barrier and one static lunge pierced through it completely, driving the spear-tip into the Warden's collarbone. The Warden, however, had learned from his mistakes, and used the momentum from being wounded to jerk his scythe upwards, opening a long, deep gash across his attacker's chest.

Furia stumbled only slightly, centuries of inactivity not having numbed her resistance to pain in the slightest. She shattered the halberd with a quick strike to its shaft and formed it into an intricate sword, before darting at her attacker once more. Her agility kept her far away from that snaking hook, and her sword once more cut away at the green barrier until a final heavy strike shattered both it and her blade. Thresh growled again, flailing his chain at her feet in an attempt to hook her feet out from under her, and found his chain hooking nothing but air – Furia had _leapt_ straight at him, driving one knee right into his face as her other foot landed on his now bent knee. She used it as a stepping stone to equal out her balance before vaulting over him once again, and to his _great_ outrage, another deep cut lashed across his back, sending him stumbling forwards in pain.

He turned to face his aggressor, seeing the possessed man had summoned another blade – but to his great confusion, it was dispelled almost instantly. "_Fool,"_ he sneered. "_Such arrogance… I'm only too happy to _humble you_!"_ He said, lashing out at his opponent with his chain again. Furia caught it once more – but instead of allowing the Warden to come to her, she instead opted to turn the tables; she went to _him_. Scythe in hand, she mounted a downright audacious unarmed attack against him, utilising her speed to dodge and evade the blunt blows from the lantern the madman was using to defend himself – and not _once_ did she release the scythe.

Only once the Chain Warden had aimed a blow too far out, and overextended himself, did she put her plan into motion. Utilising quick footwork she'd used to swim through armies of violent soldiers, she started a series of fluid, almost dance-like motions around the spectre. Lost to outrage and murderous intent, the Warden did not realise he was snaring himself in his own chains until it was too late. Finishing her evasive movements, Furia once again leapt towards him, driving her knee into his face and perching herself on his out-bent knee, before hopping over him again – and when she did, she wrapped both hands around the scythe's shaft, and pulled the chain taut.

The series of links, which had mere seconds before looped and coiled around the Warden's feet, leapt up and snared him into immobility with a sickening snap of steel. His bony lantern clattered to the ground as his arms were pinned, one to his stomach and one to his side, and with a strangled cry Thresh seemed to realise he'd been had – played for a fool once again. Furia slammed a foot into his lower back and tugged on the chains, making sure they were as tight as possible, before flipping the scythe around and burying it into the Warden's back, right up to the hilt. A kick to the back of his leg then brought the sadistic madman to his knees.

Once again, that twisted, black hand seized his skull in a vice-like grip, this time gripping the top of his bare head. He heard the red smoke forming another weapon, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the edge of a disturbingly weighty age looming in his captor's hand. "Be still," he heard his attacker say, in that same fragmented voice that had echoed in his ears before his last passing, "and return to death, abomination."

Furia did not bother waiting on a response – nothing from the creature before her had any merit or meaning in any case. Ignoring the enraged, otherworldly roar of fury spilling from the spectre's mouth, she arched her arm back and swung the axe, utilising its own weight more than the strength Garret's body could muster.

And with a single loud _crack_, the Warden's enraged roar fell silent, and once more the eerie green light died out.

She dispersed the axe then, and turned to face the rest of her host's allies.

Jax had just sent the Fallen Angel scurrying back to that elevated altar behind the Nexus, clutching at a weeping wound on her face while her other arm hung limply by her side, whilst the Ranger, Quinn, and that beast of hers slowly but surely whittled away at the fragile Nexus crystal. Jax spared her a glance, then, and upon seeing the Chain Warden's decapitated body once more, offered a firm, yet somewhat hesitant nod of approval. The mere gesture made excitement bloom in her – it would be _glorious_ the day they finally crossed paths in battle. Jax quickly shrugged off the sight of the dead sadist, however, and joined Quinn in hammering away at the Nexus. The crystal seemed to falter even faster under the Grandmaster's blows.

She summoned two short swords, then, clutching both in reverse grip, and strolled forward, intent on lending her strength to the destruction of the Nexus.

The sound of soaring magic bubbling and burning through the air dissuaded her, and she quickly stepped back just as a bubbling bolt of black magic soared past her, striking the low wall far behind her and singing the stone. She crouched down, ready to leap into action as she directed her focus at her new attacker. The Fallen Angel had made a speedy recovery, and now stood at the foot of the stone stairs. However, it seemed as though her recuperation was flawed – the wound travelling along her cheek hadn't fully healed yet, and even now her damaged arm twitched as she used it to focus more magics. "_D_o _yo_u w_is_h _t_o d_ie_ a_s_ _we_l_l_?" Furia questioned the disfigured angel.

"You can't kill me," the Angel grumbled in response. With a flick of her wrist, the stones beneath Furia turned corrupt and tainted, and lashes of dark, tormented earth attempted to strike at her heels. A quick roll to the side evaded the perversion of nature, and a quick vault to the side sent another bolt of bubbling magic crashing against the low wall. "Not while I'm standing here. You… You're the one who's been giving my _dear_ sister so much trouble," she said, before smirking cruelly. "I would applaud you if you weren't my enemy."

Any response Furia might have made was cut off as a mad, _bloodthirsty_ roar shook the very stone they stood on, and in a burst of fiery might and pale skin, the undead juggernaut they had slain earlier _leapt_ back into the fray, the very impact from his landing sundering the stone beneath his feet. His titanic axe slammed down on the earth mere moments later, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris as his dynamic re-entry into the fray sent Jax, Quinn and that eagle scuttling away from the Nexus. The fires of rage burned in his eyes, and with an animalistic bellow he advanced on the first target in sight – Jax himself. Sion's colossal axe once more attempted to smear the Grandmaster all over the ground – and once more, Jax's evasive skills trumped almost every shot.

"You're all wounded," the Fallen Angel spoke again, recapturing Furia's attention, "and the Undead Juggernaut is fresh to the fight. Understand this is a skirmish you _can't_ win," she said harshly. "So take my advice: flee, while you still have a ch-"

A shining, smoking brass lamp slammed into her face with a sickening crunch, and for but a _moment_ Furia could see the Angel's cheekbone shattering under the impact before the sickly-looking woman was sent crashing to the floor. Jax spared the most _fleeting_ of glances towards her, those six blue lenses conveying a seriousness as of yet unseen from him. "I'll deal with her," he said, striking the angelic woman with his lamppost again as she tried to rise. "Quinn's keeping Sion busy – get to that Nexus and _finish this."_

She did not need to be told twice. Dispelling the twin swords and forming a short yet spiky mace from her blood smoke, Furia _rocketed _towards the Nexus. The crystal seemed as though it were being held together by sheer wishful thinking; the series of cracks and deep gashes signalled it needed only a few more good strikes from her to finish the job. The Nexus loomed ever closer – but her task, although _simple_, would not be easy.

The Undead Juggernaut had noticed her mad dash for their Nexus, and in a blind rage, he loosed a single, _booming_ bellow at Quinn and Valor. The roar left him in the form of yet another tremendous shockwave, one that knocked the great bird of prey clean out of the sky and blasted the Ranger right off her feet. The blood-hued dome around him reinforced itself again, _forcing_ the bolts protruding from it back out as the pale behemoth stormed to intercept.

'_Furia, look out!'_ Garret's voice, combined with her own instincts honed over centuries, quickly led to her noticing the rampaging titan barrelling straight at her. The pale giant's body was wreathed in fiery wrath, making him seem more like a flaming projectile than an actual warrior. She vaulted backwards, flipping twice after she landed, and _still_ the sheer impact from the colossal warrior's unstoppable onslaught blew most of the red smoke surrounding her away. She quickly formed two daggers again, intent on evading the giant completely and focusing solely on the Nexus. When the dust settled, she charged forward, unflinching in the face of the eight-foot titan and the dome of wrath surrounding him. With a roar, Sion swung his axe to intercept, an attack that was _easily_ evaded, and when the giant's free hand formed a fist and swung dead-centre, that too struck air as Furia twirled to the side, brushing right past the giant. Her daggers scraped at the Nexus crystal, once, twice, thrice – and just as they would have struck the fourth blow, the giant attacking her acted in desperation.

The blood-red dome around him _exploded_ outward, and the sheer force behind it knocked Furia away from the Nexus and _shattered_ the blades held in her hands. She was rolling the moment she hit the ground, quickly repositioning herself in a way to continue her onslaught – but at that moment, Garret's right leg gave in completely, unwilling to cooperate any further. As she collapsed to the ground, Furia cursed under her breath as realisation struck – although she could resist _great_ amounts of pain, it was likely Garret's body could not. His was a frail composition – something like this should have been expected.

Sion did not let this window of opportunity go to waste – the back of his axe _slammed_ into Furia's side with enough force to _lift_ the body she controlled clean off the ground and pitch it against the far wall. Several loud snaps echoed, and with a muted growl Furia noticed more and more of Garret's limbs failing – as it stood it seemed the mutated right arm was the only one she could move with any kind of ease. The pale juggernaut gazed at her fallen form, striking his axe twice against the ground and sharpening it just a bit more. The monster's breathing was laboured, but despite that, there was a bloodthirsty grin on his face, visible even behind the crown-like attachment. "Now…" He said, surprisingly softly for someone with such a deep, threatening voice. "Now I break you, into tiny little _pieces…!_" He snarled, lumbering towards her with his axe clenched in both hands. Every footfall sent tremors along the stone, and those eyes projected unimaginable hatred.

And yet, Furia had not a hint of panic or worry. In fact, had her face been capable of oral expression, she would have been sporting a _grin_. Gingerly, assailed by pain and a failing body, she raised the only limb she could, her twisted black arm, pointed behind the giant, and spoke simply:

"_E_vid_en_tl_y_ n_ot_."

The giant's brow furrowed, in confusion and ire towards the obvious delay tactic, but turned to face what his soon-to-be victim was pointing at regardless – and his eyes, that had been set into a baleful, hateful glare mere _seconds_ before, widened as a look of complete shock overtook the titan. Off to the side of the Nexus, the broken, battered form of the Fallen Angel crawled pitifully up the stairs, her pale skin covered in cuts and bruises, and perched atop the Nexus crystal itself, with his purplish garb fluttering in the Treeline's breeze, Jax stood, casual as can be, and his lamppost shone very, _very_ brightly. As smugness seeped from behind the six lenses of his helm, he offered the Undead Juggernaut a single, almost carefree shrug.

"Sup, buddy," he said plainly – and in a single, effortless movement, he _smashed_ his lamppost down on the fragile Nexus crystal.

Sion's mouth opened in a wordless, inelegant holler, and in any other case it would have been a _deafening_ shout, but as the Nexus crystal _shattered_ into tiny arcane fragments, the sudden maelstrom of magical energy and ringing light drowned out even the loudest of sounds. The Nexus exploded in a dazzling burst of potent magic energy, and the ensuing shockwave blotted Sion's form out completely, erasing him and his allies from the now unstable Treeline. It was as though every source of light in the camp, every source of light on that side of the battlefield itself, was swallowed up by the ensuing explosion.

And when the light died down, the camp was pristine as can be. The Nexus crystal was repaired, although it had grown dull, almost gray in its inactivity, and the few beams of moonlight that had once shone down on the stone base camp had been swallowed up completely by the dark clouds above. And most importantly – not a single trace of Thresh, Morgana or Sion remained.

Furia remained slumped against the wall, pondering whether it was a good time to recede. The damage done to Garret's body would no doubt cripple her host for a few minutes – but if she kept the transition going, the damage would be that much worse when she finally relented. She squirmed where she sat, at least trying to reposition Garret's body into a more comfortable posture, to at least lessen his discomfort if she could do nothing about his pain. A loud screech caught her attention, and she gazed up to the low wall to see the Ranger's feathered friend perched there, sitting regally as only an eagle could. A shuffling sound to her right drew her attention there, and immediately she recognised the feathery garb.

Quinn had somehow shuffled herself into a sitting position next to her ally. Her right hand clutched at the side of her face, specifically the ear that was bleeding slightly, while her left hand remained slumped by her side. "I saw what happened," she said grimly. "Garret's body failed, didn't it?" Upon receiving a nod from Furia, her expression darkened. "The pain's going to hurt him immensely, isn't it?" Upon receiving another nod, she sighed wistfully, turning her gaze to the now inactive Nexus. The two of them saw Jax strolling towards them, his outfit tattered and his lamppost bent even more out of shape, but still no worse for wear. "You said your transition takes a toll on him," she said morosely. "You should… You should recede," she finalised. "If only so the damage doesn't get worse."

"She's right, ya know," Jax helpful supplied. "And this is likely the only time I'll ever admit it. We might still be here, but it won't be long. Soon we'll go back too – and hey, I know you're cool and all, if a bit crazy, but if the Institute at large sees what your switcheroo does if you do it too much…" He dragged a finger across his throat to display the possible repercussions. "It ain't gonna be pretty."

"You don't need to worry, in any case," Quinn spoke. The faintest of smiles adorned her lips, despite the pained expression on her face. Her free hand landed on the wrist of Garret's mutated right arm, and she gave it a tentative, yet reassuring squeeze. "As far as we're concerned… We… We're still allies," she said firmly. "We're here for him, Furia."

The ancient warrior's hesitation lasted but a moment. In the end, her concern for Garret's life triumphed over her concern over his pain, and somewhat shakily, she nodded once in affirmation. "_I_ u_nd_e_rst_a_n_d," she said softly, as she noticed Jax tearing a strip off his cape and wrapping it around the shaft of his lamppost, before kneeling by her side. "Y_ou_… _Y_o_u_ ha_ve_ _m_y t_ha_n_k_s," she said, "_f_o_r_… _f_or _car_in_g_ f_o_r h_im_…" And with those words, the mask of red smoke receded, and the two sharp white eyes disappeared, leaving two fatigued, curious ones in their stead.

Garret blinked wearily once, opening his mouth sluggishly to ask just what had happened – and the moment his lips parted enough, Jax shoved the fabric-covered brass in between his teeth. The sudden look of confusion lasted less than a _second_ before every ounce of indescribable pain slammed into Garret's being at frightening speeds. His jaw _locked_ shut as much as it could, teeth grinding against the fabric as a muted, muffled _howl_ of agony escaped the scholar's mouth. His face turned first a deep red, then a _worrying _pale, and the veins on his forehead visible amidst the dark hairs clinging to it swelled slightly. His entire frame tensed, quaking from the pain as deadened limbs strained against aches that pierced right to the marrow. And amidst it all, the groans and whimpers and muted screams poured forth unfalteringly.

They remained that way for a good minute or two, with Jax keeping his lamppost steady, Quinn keeping her grip on Garret's wrist, and Garret himself weathering the sudden onslaught of agony through nothing but sheer willpower and the support of his allies.

The entire ordeal loaned a pyrrhic, bittersweet edge to their victory.

Eventually, to everyone present's great relief, the worst of the pain passed soon enough, and Garret went from a groaning, screaming wreck to a quivering mass slumped against the wall. His breathing was laboured and raw, his face was deathly pale and his body shivered as though it were freezing – but at the very least, the screaming had stopped. "Atta boy, buddy," Jax placated him, removing the fabric-covered brass from the scholar's mouth. The absence of muffling made the hollowness of his breathing that much more apparent. "Everything's gonna be just fine," the mercenary said reassuringly. "Heh. We won, after all. And it's all because of you and your lady-friend."

"W-We… we won…" Garret said shakily, his voice so cracked and broken it sounded as though he were whispering. "Gods above… Did I… Did I die this time…?" He asked. The question drew soft, relieved chuckles from Quinn and Jax.

"Nah. Nah, you didn't," Jax said cheerily. "I get the feeling they'll need more firepower if they wanna off you, eh?"

Garret wheezed in response, before devolving into a coughing fit that brought tears to his eyes. "My…" He wheezed afterwards, the shivers running up and down his body receding just a tad. "My first death… Is going to be… an absolutely _heinous_ affair…" He groaned. It was a statement intended to be darkly foreboding – but even in that darkness, the scholar's own muted sense of humour shone through, a clear indicator that, despite his pain, the scholar was going to be fine. The statement caused Jax to laugh heartily, and even Quinn had trouble repressing the giggle that bubbled up within her. Even Garret eventually joined in, laughing feebly at the dark humour he had unintentionally caused.

Their laughter faded as their forms suddenly lit up, and the magics sustaining the Treeline itself was drawn to them in bright wisps. "W-What… What's happening?" Garret asked groggily, worried looking at the wisps of magic.

"Relax, bud," Jax placated him, placing a hand on the scholar's shoulder, gently, so as not to injure him. "It's the Summoners. They're finally getting us out of this shithole," he said cheerily. "And not a moment too soon, if ya ask me. Going by that look on your face, bud, if you _never_ see this place again it'll be too soon." He paused then, looking at the wisps dancing around them, forming circles of light as the ringing of magic started to intensify. "Heh. What's the bet the Summoners called for Soraka the _moment_ they heard your little switcheroo is bad for you." His tone took on a teasing edge as he gazed down at Garret. "Yeah, I bet they called that hot little ninja-nurse too. They're gonna make you feel _reeeeaaal _good, buddy," he teased.

"Oh, c-come off it," Garret scolded the Grandmaster, and yet, he couldn't keep the grin off his face. In the throes of agony, Jax's humour did much to alleviate the darkness clouding his mind.

The hum of magic intensified then, and bright, blinding light pierced the darkness around him. The white void started to swallow up Quinn and Jax, seemingly starting to phase them out of existence. "Well, buddy," Jax said, looking down at Garret. "See you on the outside." And just like that, he disappeared into the magic void. Quinn faded to white next, offering him the smallest of reassuring smiles before disappearing, and soon enough, Garret was left alone with his thoughts and his agony.

"_I… Garret…"_ Furia's voice drifted through his mind, sounding uncharacteristically troubled. "_I had no idea this would happen so soon, I… I thought you were…"_ She trailed off, sounding angry – at what, he didn't need to guess. "_I was not paying heed to your body… and now you are paying the price. I…"_

'_Don't… Don't worry about it,'_ Garret shushed her inwardly, as the hum of magic started to swallow him whole. '_I… I gave you my word, did I not? When I was… When you were in control,'_ he said, '_I felt what you felt. I felt your happiness, at finally moving around again, fighting again…_ living_ again…'_ He smiled despite his pain, hoping his tenant could see it, or _feel_ it. '_That… That made it all worth it, Furia… This pain, this agony… It is crippling… but if it can make you feel those emotions again… If it can make you feel, what I felt, when the High Councillor told me I was a free man…'_ He trailed off again, and his smile grew even wider – despite the lance of pain it sent coursing through his face. '_Furia… If it could make you feel like that… I would do this all again in a heartbeat.'_

He received no response to that statement; he didn't need to. After he had achieved that resonance with Furia, he found himself remarkably in tune with what she felt – and at that current moment, he reckoned what his tenant, no, his _partner_ felt at that moment, could be described as nothing but stunned silence.

And that suited him just fine.

Earlier that day, Furia had stated that Garret surprised her more with every passing day; and despite the frenzied state of his being, Garret reckoned he had many more surprises to show her.

So he relaxed, as much as his pain addled body would allow him to, and let the magics take him.

His first foray into the Fields of Justice had been a tiring, terrifying, painful venture – but it had all been worth it, in a way.

And just before he allowed the magics to soothe him into a blissful state of unconsciousness, a single thought crossed his mind:

With Furia at his side…

Suddenly, fighting in the League of Legends didn't seem so daunting after all.

* * *

X**A/N:**** ...ye gods and higher powers. Almost 45K words.  
**

**I am so, _so_ sorry - you all have my solemn vow that I will do everything, _everything_ in my power to prevent you from such a monumental task again in the future. This is currently, and likely will be, Will of Iron's longest chapter. I will state it again: I will do everything in my power to prevent myself from writing such a huge chapter again.**

**And to think: It was originally going to be _even_ _longer_.**

**I'm not even joking - there was a slice of life segment with Garret and Soraka just before his match, Jax's first fight with Morgana was actually a fully-typed-out, 1500-word segment, Quinn's skirmish against Sion before Furia stepped in was longer and the final battle at the Nexus was going to be a bird's eye 3rd person narrative, containing extended battles between Jax and Morgana, Quinn and Sion and Garret/Furia and Thresh.**

**That would have put the chapter at almost 60K words.**

**So I immediately decided: "F***. That. _Too much, Chaos - too much._"**

**Nonetheless, I did my best to make this chapter a worthwhile read despite its length. I brought back two of the story's first 'defining' Champions in Jax and Quinn, and even gave them roles in an honest-to-goodness League Match. I brought in three _new_ presences in the form of Thresh, everyone's favourite sadistic madman, Morgana, everyone's favourite morally ambiguous yet slightly creepy Fallen Angel, and post-rework Sion - who I admit is one of the most fun Champs I've ever played. I've done my best to keep these three true to their current lore while developing them in a way I feel could be believable - but as it stands, I have no way of knowing how well I did until I see how many hits this chapter gets. Still, I hope its a worthwhile read nonetheless.**

**Now for something different: Shameless plug-I mean a nifty little story corner! I've recently taken to reading stories in the League of Legends fanfiction section, searching for stories - predominantly OC-centric - that can prove worthwhile. Very, very nearly, the amount Oversexed!Ahri x OC stories had me tasting vomit in my mouth - but I found two stories that are totally, totally worth reading:**

**The Road To Recovery (by ThatUnholyAfro):**** A lot of meaning in an OC comes from _depth_. OCs who get along with everyone are boring, OCs who get along with _nobody_ are too dark and angsty, while OCs who are perfect have no point in existence, and OCs who are so imperfect that they act as a black hole for the story also have no point of existing. ThatUnholyAfro does a _wonderful_ job with his OC, portraying an anti-hero of sorts with bad publicity who undergoes many different trials and tribulations - as it stands it seems the trope "Earn Your Happy Ending" is in full effect, and the story is just that much better for it.**

**The Value of Strength (by**** QueenSword): Riddle me this: What happens to the fanfiction meta when someone can take the classical, if cliched, "Real Girl In Real World Gets Sucked Into LoL" storyline, and makes it _work_? The answer: This story. The author goes out of their way to portray an OC completely out of their depth and comfort zone in a completely realistic, yet still humorous storyline that details a normal person's attempts to survive and adapt in the ruthless League of Legends. Great characterisation, believable fanon, an OC with meaningful struggles and perfect balance between positive and negative traits, and fluid (if a tad short) chapters annihilate all the cringiness associated with these types of story, and it is an absolute must-read because of it.**

**Then there's one final story:**

**Of Red Petals and Black Feathers (by Unseen Lurker, crossover between League of Legends and RWBY):**** An absolute masterpiece of a story, in my opinion - and its only two chapters in! The author has managed to do something his reviewers claim they tought was _impossible: _He has taken a character from League of Legends and has, with _great_ success, integrated him into the gung-ho, over-the-top universe that is RWBY. This deviation from the timeline, coupled with meaningful, _believable_ changes in canon characters and one of the most terrifying yet _wondrous_ portrayals of Fiddlesticks I've seen in a long while, make this a definite story to follow.**

**I highly recommend checking these stories out - they are absolute masterpieces in my own humble opinion, and while they're not _perfect_ \- and let's be real, how many stories are? - they're pretty damn close to it. **

**And just before I finish, the obligatory shoutouts: Special thanks to Unseen Lurker, whose conversations with me play_ a huge_ role in developing this story, and extra-special thanks to the EUW player "Kitten Mittenz" for helping me with concepts and ideas! You guys are absolute treasures.**

**I'll stop rambling now, and end this chapter officially by saying thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you enjoyed it!**

**Sincerely,**

**-Chaos**


	5. Chapter 5

**Pre-Chapter**** A/N: Ehehehe... Uhm... Better late than never, I suppose...?**

**Long story short, I'm quite aware it took me forever to get this published. I'll save the excuses for the post-chapter A/N though. Kept you guys waiting months for this chapter, and I won't keep you on a line a minute longer than I have to.**

**Customary shout-outs: A special word of thanks to Unseen Lurker for his stellar assistance and services, and special shout-out the EUW player "CreativeJuices" for being such an epic sounding board.**

**Now... onward!**

* * *

**Will of Iron, Heart of Gold  
Chapter V  
Embrace Death**

"I am starting to feel uncomfortably familiar with hospital interior. This realisation… well, it's unnerving, to say the least."

Despite the somewhat grim nature of the situation at hand, Soraka smiled to herself at hearing her latest patient's words echo across the empty hospital ward. She had been going through a Summoner's report on the events that transpired during a practice battle that had been held on the Twisted Treeline a day or so before. Amidst detailed medical reports, theses from the Summoner in control and testimony from two other Champions of the League, Soraka noted the tidbits of information regarding the actual battle itself. With a smirk, she realised that the Institute of War's newest Champion – or _Champions_ – could indeed hold their own; even against monsters like Thresh and juggernauts like Sion.

Said Champion was currently seated on a typical check-up bench before her, scanning the clinical interior with a critical eye. She found she could not exactly blame him for his remark – given his past experiences in the Institute's hospital wing, he had every right to feel apprehensive at being back. The fact that he'd made close to a full recovery reinforced that right even more – and Soraka had a niggling feeling it was only because Garret Hillock held her in such high regard that he agreed to a follow-up check-up at all. "Well I can assure you," she said good-naturedly as she continued her check-up, "as soon as this is over it'll be a long while before you need to come back. Once I finish this up I'll relay it to the Summoners," she said, "and hopefully you won't be feeling nausea, fatigue and numbness in your limbs after every match."

It had been quite a shock for her, being notified to report to the summoning chambers when Garret was barely halfway through his first battle. Apparently his Summoner at the time – an old, experienced arcanist who'd been with the Institute since its birth – had _immediately_ caught on to some of the harsher consequences of Garret's transition with the spirit in his arm. The disastrous repercussions of their switch left downright _terrifying_ amounts of strain on his muscles, bones and organs, as though Garret's body was almost incompatible with whatever had taken control. This otherworldly strain, combined with the ludicrous amounts of punishment Garret had endured during the match proper, would have been considered near-fatal had he not been within the constraints of the Institute's magics.

She subtly shook her head. She had seen many other Champions take similar, if not _worse_ amounts of damage, but none of _them_ had the downside of their battles' repercussions lasting even after the match ended. Such a thing only ever happened in matches involving the latest being to join the Institute's ranks.

The majority of Garret's pain and ailments had been dispelled when the Summoners brought him back from the Treeline. Sadly, though, it seemed the alien toll on his body transcended some of the limits and failsafes the Institute had set into place, and Garret was left feeling ghost pains of his injuries and immense fatigue for several hours after his victory. She had been there, when Jax, Quinn and Garret had reappeared in the Summoning chamber, and her own keen eyes and instinct regarding injury quickly deduced that it was only through sheer force of will that Garret was even still standing.

So she did what she had done all the other times such a rare occurrence made itself known: She immediately had the scholar carted off to the hospital wing, and sent word for some of her most trusted medical companions to report there at once.

It wasn't the first time such a thing had happened, after all – the fact that the Institute could not properly predict the effects of a new Champion's abilities until they had been seen in combat had led to many long-standing repercussions. Absently, she thought back to when Vel'Koz, the Eye of the Void, had made his debut. She shuddered slightly – at least three of his opponents had come to her complaining about burning sensations running across their skin even after the match had ended.

"That would be… quite preferable, yes," Garret nodded as he regarded the greenish hue of astral magics snaking around him with a curious gaze. "Normally I wouldn't mind such a drawback; after all, I have endured worse in the past. Jax, however, told me there would be times when whole days would be dedicated to fighting on the Fields of Justice. I'm not saying I hope for such an occurrence, but in the event that it does transpire, well, I doubt aches and pains would be beneficial to my stay here."

"I can't say they would be, no," Soraka agreed, scribbling something down on the paper before her. "I find myself relieved, actually," she ventured as she proceeded with the check-up, moving to check Garret's heart rate. "The fact that one of the eldest Summoners had been linked with you led to us discovering the… _drawbacks_ of your transition with Furia much sooner than we would have," she trailed off as she finished another routine part of the check-up, reaching back and scribbling the adequate results down again. "It's not all that rare to see a Champion whose abilities take a toll on their bodies. Noxus' resident hemomancer, for example, cannot utilise _any_ of his magics without harming himself. You and Furia, however…" She trailed off. "I will admit this is the first time I have seen _sustained_ self-harm."

"Right… And I assume the 'sustained' part is beyond your help?"

"Well, sadly, I think… Wait," Soraka trailed off, blinking once as she realised Garret had just quickly surmised the bad news she had been waiting to find the right moment to break to him. "When did you… How did you know?" She asked softly, straightening up and forgoing the pretence of continuing the check-up.

"Well I admit it was an assumption at first," Garret said with a skew smile and a shrug of his shoulders, "until you confirmed it for me now. I noticed that, despite all the drama about my condition after the battle on the Treeline, you – and the Summoners – only ever mentioned trying to halt the _aftereffects_, and not the damage from the transition proper," he said. "Common sense told me either you just didn't care, or there was nothing you could do… and, well, I cannot claim to know you, exactly, but I know _enough_ to be certain the former is highly improbable," he said with a placating smile.

"I…" The Starchild tried to speak, suddenly feeling slightly bashful at being caught red-handed with such ease. "I was waiting for the right moment to tell you. I thought that, with everything you've been through, you didn't need…" She trailed off, sighing as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "During my tenure here I've noticed that ominous news can weigh heavily on one's spirit – especially when announced at the wrong moment. I… I wanted to spare you that."

"And it is a gesture I appreciate more than I can ever put into words," Garret said with a smile, standing up from the bench. "But I'm _alive_, Soraka. I have been cleared of all charges, absolved of most of my strife, and I have a new life looming ahead of me. Both of us do," he said, pointing to his arm, which glowed as if agreeing. "A little bit of pain in the middle of a necessary battle… Well, it's not ideal – I feel I cannot repeat _that_ enough," he said with a short chuckle, "but it is _bearable_. I dare say it's a price I am more than willing to pay."

"…That is a rather noble way of looking at it, I admit," Soraka said softly as she watched the scholar move over to the chair and seize his sleeveless duster off the backrest. _He's so quick to brand himself a coward_, she thought with the barest hints of a humoured smile, _and yet, he says things like that so easily. _

Offhandedly she wondered if he was just blissfully ignorant of how brave he _could_ be at times, or whether his own perception of bravery and confidence was just so skewed he just couldn't see it.

"The Summoner told me the pain I feel after a successful transition is due to incompatibility," Garret said as he finished donning his duster, quickly stopping to brush his dark hair out from under the collar. "I… Well, I thought such a thing would be hard to believe, but I find myself more receptive of the idea than I thought I would be."

Soraka paused when she heard this. "Why is that?" She asked, honestly curious.

"Well, I recalled some texts I deciphered when I was… well, when I was hiding in Shurima," Garret admitted as he smoothed out the duster's lapels. "I could not _clearly_ translate it, but the general idea the writer was trying to convey was obvious," he said with a smile. "I assume he was some kind of philosopher – he was of the opinion that the mortal body is a shell that moulds itself after the image of the human soul," he said simply. "I saw some ramblings and notes about how this related to Ascension, but I had to pack up and leave lest the caravan I hid with left me behind," he said sheepishly. "It was a respectable opinion, if I may admit it… and if it is true, well, it would explain Furia's 'incompatibility' with my own person quite well."

_The body mirrors the soul…_ Soraka thought, placing her hands on her hips. "Yes…" She mused. "Yes, it may do just that. She…" She trailed off, before clearing her throat. "Well, I do not intend to cause offense when I say this, Garret, but… Well, Furia seems anything _but_ human," she said somewhat timidly. "If she isn't, that explains it all perfectly." Then she grimaced. "And it confirms there's absolutely nothing I can do to ease the strain…" She muttered.

"Now, now, none of that," Garret said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We've discussed this already," he said with a smile. "I _live_, and, well, I am as close to 'free' as I suspect I will ever be. My mind is mostly my own, my direction in life is now mine to decide and, well, acting as a Champion of the Institute offers me more stability than I have had in… _ages_, honestly," he summarised happily. "As far as I am concerned there are no burdens; complications, maybe, but no burdens. That... well, I'll not look a gift horse in the mouth, as it's said."

Soraka sighed, shaking her head before moving towards the door. With a quick action she opened it, and motioned to Garret to follow. "It will be difficult, letting this matter rest," she said tiredly as she stepped into the hall leading to the hospital wing's lobby. "But, if you insist you are unburdened then I will desist."

"And you have my sincerest thanks for that," Garret admitted with a smile as he followed her. "If it is any consolation, you have my word that I will seek your aid the moment I suspect something's amiss."

"That is all I ask," Soraka said with a smile as they approached the middle of the lobby. It was one of those rare 'slow days' as far as the hospital wing's operations were concerned. Despite the usual amount of healing-oriented Summoners present, the rest of the operations were performed by a 'skeleton crew' of sorts. She frowned slightly as the prospect of having nothing to do crept up on her. "Have you thought about what you will do now?" She asked casually as she accompanied the scholar to the front door.

"I have, actually," he admitted with a shrug. "It might be a while before I can actually get my hands dirty again, but… I found many places with rich history and many scrolls and texts while I travelled. Necessity dictated I leave them be, at the time, but now, well… I look forward to going back and learning as much as I can."

"I take it Shurima is at the top of your list of places to go?" Soraka mused with a smile.

"Ionia, actually," Garret corrected her, and his own skew grin grew at the expression of surprise on Soraka's face. "From my point of view it's a historical and cultural goldmine. Ionia's records might not span as far back as Shurima's, I admit, but the Far East has a lot more cultural diversity to explore."

Soraka blinked once as she stopped before the hospital wing's doors. _That_ had taken her completely by surprise. It was no secret that the desert sands of Shurima was one of Garret's more favoured hideaways during his time on the run – he had even told her he spent the most time there, cumulatively. She was almost certain it would be right at the top of Garret's list of priorities, especially after Emperor Azir's resurrection and subsequent Ascension.

The scholar seemed to have a habit of surprising people he spoke with, Soraka realised.

"That, however, will have to wait," Garret said with finality as he reached out and pushed the door open. "I have to go meet with that old Summoner who looked after me during the practice battle," he explained, stepping out. "I will need to seek guidance as well."

"Guidance?" Soraka asked, somewhat worried. "I thought you said you were 'unburdened' now?"

"I _also_ said there _were_ complications, even in the absence of burdens," Garret admitted with a short chuckle. "I… I realised a few things in the aftermath of that practice match," he admitted. "The Chain Warden… Well, when Furia was about to kill him, I think he screamed, but…" He frowned as he spoke. "I think it was more a scream of outrage and fury than a scream born from the fear of death," he said softly. "In fact, I am quite certain each one of our enemies died at least once in that battle… and yet," he said, shaking his head, "none of them seemed particularly bothered by the fact that they died."

"It happens, yes, that the Champions of the Institute become somewhat desensitised to death," Soraka admitted warily. "Why does that make you so concerned, Garret?"

The scholar paused for a bit at her question, turning his gaze back to the almost stagnant lobby of the hospital wing. "There's a chance I might sound ridiculous when I say this," he finally admitted, "but our transition… Furia only managed to take control during a… an alignment, of sorts. We both feared for my life at that moment."

Soraka's eyes widened as she realised what Garret was alluding to. "You're worried," she surmised.

"I am," Garret admitted, somewhat hoarsely. "It's a far-fetched theory, I know, maybe I'm even being foolish – we _did _achieve a transition after the whole 'fear-of-death' debacle, but… That was still the initial trigger. If I become as… as _desensitised_ to death as the other Champions are, then I lose the one trigger I know with certainty to be a success," he said. "And then… Then I am back to square one, as the saying goes." He let his words linger between them for a while, still gazing at the calm lobby in the distance, before a resolute look of determination flashed across his gaunt features. "I am not willing to let that happen," he said confidently. "Our transition occurred at the height of some kind of spiritual alignment – an eclipse of some kind, I would wager. I need to find a way to _broaden_ that alignment, and find a way to trigger our transition more frequently and with greater ease."

He took a deep breath, before squaring his shoulders. Soraka expected a grim visage to appear on his features, but despite the confident, determined stance Garret had taken, he still offered her a small, skewed smile. "That's why… I intend to find the Summoner who aided me during the practice match," he said, softly yet steadily. "And I intend to inform him that I am willing to go through battle after battle, until I find a solution."

His voice wavered, just a _hint_ near the end of his words – it was a slight quiver that boiled up from the depths of his stomach, that signified just how discomforting such an approach was to the somewhat pacifistic scholar. How his aversion to combat survived a battle on the Twisted Treeline was anyone's guess, _especially_ with someone as persistent as the Chain Warden pursuing him, but Soraka wasn't about to fault that particular trait of his – it was quite endearing, in a way, almost signifying a degree of bumbling innocence.

And besides, the Starchild thought as her gaze drifted to Garret's inhuman arm. More than just his own well-being was at stake. The scholar seemed steadfast in his determination to honour his agreement with the ancient spirit of carnage in his arm – and going by the way the limb was glowing, Soraka guessed the feeling was at least a _bit_ mutual.

"That is… quite a noble gesture," she said with a small smile, "even if the prospect obviously unnerves you." She giggled as her words made the scholar flinch ever slightly, as though he had been caught trying to hide something he'd rather keep obscured. "Nonetheless, I wish you the best of luck," she said warmly, offering one of her brightest smiles. "I will even do some seeking myself – Ionia is a land that is no stranger to spirits. I will let you know the moment I hear something."

For the briefest of moment, Garret's face was blank with shock. Then he blinked, and an almost bashful look of appreciation bloomed on his face. He loosed an awkward chuckle as he buried his hands into his pockets. "I… I suppose there is no harm in that," he said cheerily. "Thank you, Soraka. I…" He trailed off, before shaking his head. "Thank you," he repeated.

Any further interaction was cut short as a burst of magic turned the lobby behind them into a bustling workplace teeming with activity. A group of Summoners had appeared, seemingly via teleportation, and were currently skittering about in a frenzy of purposeful movement. Soraka, with narrowed eyes, took this as her cue to bid farewell. "It seems as though something is amiss," she mused. "Well, it seems any more conversation will have to wait until another time."

"Indeed," Garret remarked sombrely, keeping a suspicious eye on the Summoners who had invaded the hospital wing. "I should be leaving as well. I have a Summoner to track down, after all, and from what I've heard that is no easy task," he said, before smiling. "Thank you again, Soraka. Your support… means much to me."

And with those words, and a somewhat placid wave, the scholar turned on his heel and left.

Soraka had responded with a small nod and a smile, but had turned to face the Summoners currently causing chaos in the lobby the moment Garret had turned to leave. Part of her relished in the fact that it seemed her earlier observation of having 'nothing to do' was likely going to be but one of the many mistaken observations she had made in her long life.

Another part of her fought _desperately_ to steel her against the oncoming headaches.

* * *

"_So we seek the old deceiver?"_

Furia's voice held the barest tinge of curiosity as it drifted through Garret's mind. The scholar found the tone to be a pleasant change of pace from the downright _giddy_ voice laced with excitement and mania that assailed his mind after their practice battle. Not that her excitement was a burden, not at all – if anything Garret found her childish glee and bout of (somewhat violent) joy to be slightly endearing, even. But her sheer _energy_ was enough to exhaust even him at times, and at the time she had been little more than a voice in his head.

This somewhat calm, somewhat controlled version of his ally was a welcome turnaround.

'_If you mean the Summoner who aided us on the Treeline,'_ Garret answered as he stalked the halls of the Institute, '_then yes. He is, after all, the one person who knows the most about how our transition works. Soraka said he has been a member of the Institute since its birth – and that he's an arcanist to boot. If anyone can help point me in the right direction, it is him.'_ He paused for a moment, before resuming his stride, a curious expression adorning his face. '_Why call him a deceiver, though?'_

"_Because he deceives,"_ Furia answered simply. "_The hunched back is an act, Garret. I have seen the illusion falter. Though his heart is untouched by blackness I suspect he plays the part of frailty."_

'_Should I be worried?'_ Garret asked, somewhat uneasy.

"_No. No, I believe his good nature is sincere,"_ Furia responded, a trace of boredom in her voice. "…_Even if his heart is difficult to know."_

'_I will take your word for it, then,'_ Garret said with a smile. '_Do you believe he can help us, Furia?'_ He asked sincerely.

"_I believe he can contribute, at least,"_ Furia answered, almost hesitant. "_He witnessed what occurred when we swapped places, Garret, of that I am certain. Although… I suppose you could ask him now," _she said, somewhat wryly. "_He approaches. Look behind you."_

Garret whipped his head around the moment the warning was spoken, and immediately his emerald eyes locked with pools of twinkling light beneath an ornate hood. A jungle of facial hair creased as the old man smiled, and his shoulders shook with mirth as he uttered a soundless chuckle. "And here I thought I could sneak up on you," he said jovially. "Alas, it seems your friend will not allow such a thing to happen, eh, Mister Hillock?"

"Summoner…" Garret trailed off, a frown marring his features as he tried to recall a name. "I… I am afraid I have no name to address you with," he said slowly. "Unless that is a confidential detail?"

Shimmering eyes widened, in both surprise and thought, before another mirthful laugh escaped the wizened old Summoner. "No, no, it is not confidential at all," he beamed. "The fault is mine – forgetting to even introduce myself after all this time. Truly, old age is unkind to me," he lamented, though the smile remained. "I am Agvald," he said courteously.

"Agvald…" Garret pondered the name. "Freljordian, I presume?"

"Just so!" Agvald responded gleefully. "Although I must admit, it has been ages since these old bones have felt the winter chill… Bah, I digress, apologies," he said with a chuckle. "I heard quite an interesting story, Mister Hillock!" He exclaimed happily. "I heard a young man I had recently guided through the Twisted Treeline now seeks my help," he riddled, despite the 'young man' in question being obvious. "That wouldn't happen to be you, would it?" He asked, motioning for Garret to follow as he started shuffling down the hall.

"Well, it _does_ sound similar to my own precarious situation," Garret answered with a smiling, deciding to humour the old man. "Although 'young' is a bit of a stretch, no?"

Agvald responded with a hearty laugh as he stroked his beard. "My boy, from my perspective, _anyone_ without a shock of grey in their hair is young," he jested. "On a more serious note, though," he said, his voice suddenly losing that playful edge it held. "I assume this has something to do with your transition with Furia's spirit, no?"

Garret balked slightly, and nearly stopped dead. He had only told Soraka of his doubts _moments_ ago. Surely the Starchild wasn't _that_ fast… was she? "I… Well, it does, yes," he said shakily. "How… How did you know?"

"The doubts you feel now had taken root before your match even ended, Mister Hillock," Agvald said. "You worry of losing the one certain way of transitioning, due to growing accustomed to, and uncaring towards, death?"

Garret blinked, once, twice, and then a third time, in shock. Were the seeds of doubt so easy to interpret, even before they had bloomed into weeds? "That is… exactly what bothers me, Summoner Agvald," he said softly, pointedly staring at the floor as he went. "I… I will not shy away from admitting I fear death," he spoke, "but I feared many things during my time as an outlaw, and I grew so accustomed to them, that blind fear was soon replaced by stinging annoyance and calm rationality. I…" He trailed off. "It is difficult enough to make a transition with Furia as it is. As much as I fear it, I have no delusions regarding the certainty of death on the Fields of Justice… just as I have no delusions about myself eventually growing accustomed to it."

"You have put a _lot_ of thought into this, Mister Hillock," Agvald responded curiously, stroking his beard again.

"Fear of death will only serve as a trigger for so long," Garret said morosely. "I need to find another way to go about it – one with more consistency."

Agvald uttered a low hum as he finally stopped stroking his beard, and his hand returned into the darkness of his overly-long sleeve. "Well Mister Hillock, you are not the only one who has been putting thought into this matter," he said with a grin. Upon seeing Garret's quizzical expression he continued. "I was obligated to inform High Councillor Kolminye of your doubts and worries after the match proper," he said evenly, "and she insisted I look into helping you… 'smooth out' your little spirit-swap. I enlisted some other arcanists I trust implicitly, and, well, we may have found a somewhat stable solution," he said. Upon seeing the hope flickering through Garret's eyes he continued. "There's good news and bad news, though. Or good news and… slightly discomforting news, you could say."

"I…" Garret trailed off, once more looking confused. "I am not sure I follow, Summoner… What could be so discomforting about a solution?"

"The fact that it is not the _type_ of solution you seek, Mister Hillock," Agvald responded. "The… _discomforting_ news is that we cannot find a way to reinforce what little balance there is between your souls. Understand, Mister Hillock – as much as you and Furia may respect or care for each other, you are two very different souls. Equilibrium between you two is not something that can be enforced with magic. It is a more… _spiritual_ incompatibility, one that can only be cured in the same way it exists."

"…I see," Garret said, somewhat crestfallen at the knowledge. He sighed as he moved, closing his eyes and letting his shoulders slump. "Spiritualism has never been my forte, Summoner," he said glumly. "I understand the concept – I find it fascinating, even – but… I have great difficulty correctly applying it."

"So I suspected," Agvald responded with a nod. "I gained quite a bit of insight into your spirit during the battle on the Treeline, Mister Hillock. Despite your various struggles and tribulations, you have never allowed your lot in life to truly snuff the light of your soul," he remarked. "However… It is obvious that more than a decade of suffering has left its mark on your spirit. Those… are wounds that can only be mended by the self. The self, and time…"

Ever so briefly, the image of bronze skin and playful, hazel eyes flitted through Garret's mind – but with a grunt, the scholar managed to stow it away. _Time and place,_ he told himself, _and this is neither_. "I see… I suspect I believed such a thing long before this discussion, but… hearing someone else say it somehow reaffirms the inevitability of strife. What is the good news then?"

"The _good_ news, Mister Hillock," Agvald said with an obscured grin, "is that we _have_ found _a_ solution." Upon seeing Garret's rightfully quizzical expression, the old arcanist continued. "I told you we cannot _reinforce_ the equilibrium between you and Furia," he said somewhat morosely. "But we _can_, however, _force_ a transition of sorts. It will be costly – I can assure there will be pain, before and after – but on a greater, broader scope it is much, much more effective than simply _waiting_ until your emotions implicitly match. Granted, there still needs to be _some_ sort of equilibrium between you. However, I am… quite overjoyed to inform you that transitioning, from now on, will be a much, much easier task – if a bit painful, I must say again. But you seem to be no stranger to pain, are you, Mister Hillock?"

That last cryptic comment almost made Garret's step falter. "_I did inform you,"_ Furia's voice rang in his head, "_that he plays the part of the fool well. He knows much – and you would do well to listen for the truths hidden in his jests."_

"No, I… I'm no stranger to it at all," Garret said grimly, wondering just _what_ kind of pain Agvald had referred to in that statement – for all he knew it could be a tongue-in-cheek reference to _everything_ he'd felt in life. It was very likely the Summoner had discerned this information from what he had seen of Garret's memories during the battle on the Treeline. "I can't say the prospect of _more_ pain is an exciting one… but I have an oath to uphold. I… I will merely have to grit my teeth and bear it. That approach has carried me _this_ far, hasn't it?" He said cheekily.

Agvald let out a bark of laughter at that comment, smiling widely. "Yes, that it has, that it has," he nodded confidently. "And I dare say this solution has been found not a _moment_ too soon, at that!" he said. "Barely here a month and you have already made enemies. Some things never change," he mock-lamented.

Garret paused at that – in both speech and movement. That ghostly roar of fury echoed in his mind for but a _fleeting_ moment… but a moment was enough for it to make him realise just what Agvald was referring to. "You speak of the Chain Warden," he said simply.

"Indeed, indeed," Agvald said with a nod. "As much as I would like to commend you and Furia for making such an utter fool of him, I would advise caution from here on, Mister Hillock," he said darkly. "The Chain Warden has many allies who will no doubt bear arms alongside him, should the circumstances be convenient enough – and Thresh is _nothing_ if not a master when it comes to manipulating circumstances. The Deathsinger, the Shadow of War, the Spider Queen; these are names you should be cautious about, my boy."

Garret gulped as recognition chilled him to the bone upon hearing those titles – with one ringing all the clearer, after all the horror stories Aaron had created using it. "Even I know of the Deathsinger," Garret said weakly. "He is here too?" He asked. "How many monstrosities does the Institute harbour?"

"A few, I am ashamed to admit. Better to chain them here, my boy, before we let them run rampant across the continent," Agvald answered wearily. "I will admit it is not ideal – nor is it something I condone. Some of them, however… are beyond killing – at least permanently. Thus, we shackle them instead," he said with a shrug, "if not by magic, then by reason."

"Even if they are psychopaths?" Garret asked, somewhat crestfallen at the revelation. "Even if they have killed _children,_ Agvald?"

"Ah yes, the singing children," the elderly Summoner mused, stroking his beard again. He started walking again, and motioned for Garret to follow. "They are a truly horrendous sight, even for some of the League's older champions. All things considered, you held your control quite admirably in the face of those spectres," he said. There was an almost _embittered_ undertone to his normal monotonous droning. "But Thresh does not target children exclusively," he said suddenly. "There is no sport in it. Thresh targets the strong of spirit, those with wills one would normally think unbreakable. He finds… _sickening_ delight in breaking such spirits."

"Then why kill the children?" Garret asked hotly. "Why _mutilate_ them like that?"

Agvald's shoulders seemed to slump at this question. The Summoner turned to face Garret with a sombre expression, eyes almost misty. "Think, Mister Hillock," he said sadly. "What better way is there to break a strong-willed man, than to rip those he loves away from him?" He asked. "You, of all people, should know how much _that_ rends the soul."

Garret tensed up as he processed the information. He was certain his face had gone several shades paler by now, learning just how twisted and insane the Chain Warden truly was. The Summoner had a point – Garret knew _exactly_ how close to breaking point the loss of a loved one could push a man. Then a shudder shook his frame when it clicked that the Chain Warden pushed men _beyond_ that point, _for the sake of sport_. "That's all it is to him?" The scholar asked softly. "A game? A _hobby_?"

"That's _precisely_ what it is to him, Mister Hillock," Agvald said ruefully. "Even before the cold grip of undeath seized him, the monster we know as Thresh was a sadist to put all others to shame. He _lives_ for torment and agony, and will spread and inflict it through whatever means are available to him." The Summoner trailed off, making a face. "The children you saw… Much as I hate to speak so lowly of such innocence, they were merely a means to an end for the Chain Warden. Make no mistake, my boy," he said morosely, "for every child in that lantern… I can guarantee you, there is a parent knowing _infinitely_ greater agony."

Something _hollow_ and icy-cold rang through Garret's being as he processed those words, and inwardly he could almost _feel_ Furia's mounting disgust towards the maniacal spectre. Not _once_ in his travels had he encountered a being so ruthlessly cruel, so spitefully _monstrous_, and yet… not even a week into his official 'tenure' as a Champion and already such a fiend had him in its sight. He shuddered slightly at the though. "All the more reason," he said shakily, pushing the image of the sickly-green revenant to the back of his head, "for me to find a way to progress. He might be the first so-called 'enemy' I have made, but I am near-certain the Chain Warden will not be the last – especially with those titles you mentioned," he said. "It is for that reason that I… I wish to volunteer. For more battles, I mean."

The Summoner's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. "Truly? So soon, Mister Hillock? Are you not feeling unwell after your first tryst on the Fields of Justice?"

"Perhaps," Garret admitted grudgingly. "Soraka, however, has already forwarded most of the information regarding my first match to the High Council. Apparently I will not be feeling any side-effects again anytime soon. The rest… Well, as you said, Agvald; ours are two very different souls. It is already rather obvious Furia was not even human in life – incompatibility and any injury due to it are par for the course." He stopped, taking a deep breath and calming the tremors threatening to sneak down his arms at his current course of action. "I cannot stop now – not when we have come so far. Even still, the concept of stepping onto the Fields of Justice again is terrifying, but… I will not back down this time. However many battles you believe are necessary, I… _we_, will partake in all of them."

Garret did not need to hear Furia's thoughts on the matter to know he had said _something_ right – already, the normally dark, almost scaly limb pulsed a hearty red at frequent intervals, and the red tint creeping along the edge of his visions confirmed that Furia had snapped to attention almost immediately.

Agvald, Garret noticed, kept a ponderous gaze on him – one which lasted all of a few scant seconds before the elderly Summoner chuckled merrily, his facial hair crinkling as a smile formed on his lips. "That, I will admit, is wonderful news, my boy," he said warmly. "To think, you have actually rendered one of my tasks for today obsolete. The High Council wanted me to speak to you and find out whether you are willing to continue the life of a Champion. It gives me no small amount of relief to know you have beaten me to the punch," he said jovially. "When will you be available to begin?"

"Whenever the Summoners are," Garret said with a shrug and a crooked smile. He quickly folded his hands behind his back, and straightened up slightly. "I have nothing else to do. Not yet, at least."

"Spectacular," Agvald said with a nod, the motion causing the edges of his hood to sway slightly. "I will leave immediately and inform the High Council of this event. You are certain you are capable of beginning as soon as possible, my boy? It is quite early – the possibility of you entering the Fields _today_ is rather great."

"Like I said," Garret answered with a chuckle, "I am not doing anything else. Please, though… Please tell me I will not have to enter the Treeline again?" He asked hopefully. "That place… It felt as though it were the heart oozing the shadows that create nightmares."

Agvald chortled slightly at the eloquent description, already starting to move away. "That sentiment could be applied to the Shadow Isles as a whole, Mister Hillock," he said. "But no. No, you will not be fighting on the Twisted Treeline again anytime soon." With those words, he gave the scholar a wry smile and a wave, and just as Agvald's shrouded form moved down the deserted hallway, Garret heard the Summoner's last words to him – almost _hinting_:

"No, you will be fighting on… much _greener pastures._"

* * *

"So tell me something, Poet Boy: Why history, hm?"

Garret paused in the middle of taking a sip from the mug in his hand when Jax's question reached his ears. Despite himself he found the question almost startling – few people had ever bothered asking him why he pursued the _past_ so eagerly, and why he worked so hard to decipher the legacies and messages preserved in murals and stones and scrolls. He swallowed down what grog was left in the tin mug, and set it down, a confused expression on his face. "I… What brought this on all of a sudden?"

"I'm curious," Jax said with a shrug, resting his back and elbows against the countertop of 'his' bar as he gazed out at the various tables, and the patrons seated at them. It was one of those bumbling days for the bar – not too quiet, not too busy; just full enough to create that placating, almost homely buzz of activity. "You're a smart guy, y'know. Hell, I think if you were born in Piltover you'd be melting my brain with talk about phase weaponry and hextech progression and techmaturgical sciences." Upon seeing the expression of both surprise and _shock_ on Garret's face, he pretended to take offense. "What? I'm smart…ish."

Garret bit back a chuckle as he swivelled around on the bar stool he sat on. Every now and then, the Grandmaster's sense of humour would take pot shots at himself as much it would at others. "Working towards the future is a grandiose purpose in life, I admit," Garret said with a nod. "I, however, am of the opinion that the keys to a greater future are more easily found in the past than in the present. Granted, there aren't any murals that divulge to us the 'meaning of life' and all that, nor are there tombs containing catalysts for us to make _leaps and bounds _towards a more technologically advanced future," he said. "But I believe the secrets and gifts the empires and cultures of the past left us are more… _personal_."

"What makes ya say that?" Jax asked, and Garret could almost _swear_ he sensed a raised eyebrow behind that mask.

"I do not know how to explain it in definite terms," Garret said. "When I was on the run, I had the privilege of seeing certain murals and texts in the places I took shelter in - Shurima, Ionia, the Voodoo Lands, and other places rich with history and culture. When I looked upon those texts I didn't find mad ravings or prophecies about the future. Rather…" He trailed off. "Rather I found legacies, and creeds, and lifestyles. I found folklore and myth and tales of ancestral diversity that led to the creation of so _many_ wondrous tribes and villages and _empires_, even." He stopped for a moment, scanning the many patrons in the bar. "And all of those legacies," he spoke again, "all of those records and legends and captured moments, captured _ways of life_… they were all right there, preserved in stone and text, just _waiting_ to impart knowledge on whoever had the purpose to _learn_."

He swivelled back, reaching out and taking the tin mug the bartender had so graciously refilled for him. "I do not know how to phrase this passion of mine intelligently," he said, taking a sip of the grog. "Nor do I know why it entices such emotion from me… but that is because I refuse to question it, Jax," he said with a smile. "Why waste time trying to decipher why I adore history, when I _could_ be learning so much more? Why focus on myself when I can focus on the wonders of the ancient times? With the myriad of wondrous treasures I can ascertain from the scriptures and texts and murals of time long past… a more selfish desire in life seems ultimately futile in my opinion. The way I see it… There is no greater treasure, no greater _wealth_, than knowledge. _That_ is why I chose history, Jax."

Jax remained silent for a moment, studying Garret as he processed the scholar's statement. "Shit, and here I thought you were just a nerd," he said finally, shaking his head. "Ya think you know a guy," he mock-lamented. "Anyway, you mentioned scrolls and texts and shit – you took any of 'em with you?"

"What? No, no, heavens no," Garret shook his head quickly, a look of alarm on his face. "The only things I took from those ruins and tombs were photographs. I can safely say I have never resorted to stealing – neither from the living nor the dead. I left those sites with the same things I entered them with – a camera, a few notebooks and a map on which I dotted down the coordinates and locations of the many places I learned from." He paused, grimacing slightly. "Sadly those are lost to me now. I… I dropped my pack, back when that bounty hunter peppered my arm with buckshot."

"Back at the Serpentine River?" Jax asked. "Shit. It's been what, a month now? Bit more than that – that pack o' yours is as gone as that Laurent bitch's nobility. Either a passer-by swiped it or it's been swallowed by the river itself. Those waters rise _real_ high sometimes."

"I thought as much," Garret said sombrely. "Fortunately I am not the type to worry about such trivialities. Notes go missing all the time. The simple solution is making more," he said glibly. "And it's not as though there was a lot of text in those notebooks anyways. Times of learning and respite were few and far while I was on the run."

"You still remember most of the places, right?" Jax asked.

"Of course. In fact, I was thinking about starting this new bout of learning at the one place that's freshest in my memory," Garret said with a wry smile.

"What, the ruin you found her in?" Jax responded dubiously, pointing to Garret's arm, which glowed in defiance. "Sure, why not. Wouldn't be the first time you ran headlong into danger and unknown stuff," the Grandmaster remarked dryly. "Hell, maybe this time you _won't_ find any spirits trapped in swords or undead assholes with a chain fetish."

Garret merely chuckled at the Grandmaster's words. "Well, they _do_ say third time's the charm."

"Yeah? Well wait until you meet that Fox Girl that Graggy mentioned," Jax said brashly, "and you'll learn to stay the fuck away from 'charms' as well."

Garret raised a brow at Jax's somewhat bitter remark. "It seems as though there is a story here," he guessed aloud, taking another sip of grog. "Care to enlighten me as to why charms are suddenly such a curse?"

"No stories, no. Just a load of pain in the ass," Jax said with a shake of his head. "Little wench makes everyone look like complete jackasses."

Garret opened his mouth nonetheless, intent on finding out just what the self-proclaimed Champ meant by those bitter words. He was abruptly halted, though, when a loud buzzing filled his ears and his vision tinted an almost translucent shade of teal. Jax was looking at him curiously, he noticed, and he looked down at himself only to see wisps of bright-blue magic almost _swimming_ around him body. "You got a match, buddy?" He heard Jax ask.

"It would seem so," he said, a nervous smile on his face. "Heavens, I know Agvald said it might happen soon, but I wasn't expecting it within the hour…"

"Eh, what can you expect? Those Summoners are real quick about their business the day they want to be," Jax said with a shrug, standing up and depositing a small pouch on the bar. "Seeing as the same shit ain't happening to me I'm guessing you're flying solo this time. I'd wish you luck, really, but you're a clever guy. Plus you've got that crazy bitch on your side. Somehow I don't think you need any luck, eh," he said with a nod. "I'll be in the Relay Halls. _This_ is something I wanna see."

"I can only pray I do not disappoint, then," Garret said, that nervous smile never leaving his face. Parts of his vision started to rip and tear, and the warm, wooden interior of the nondescript bar suffered wounds that wept dark stone and marble into his sight. Jax's image started wavering as well, flickering like a light on the verge of being snuffed. Garret merely raised his hand and offered a short wave of farewell – one that was returned by the Grandmaster _moments_ before the oaken interior of the bar disappeared completely. The smell of grog and ale was immediately replaced by that burning, sulphurous smell Garret quickly attributed to that pool of not-mercury, and the moment he blinked and opened his eyes again, he beheld two _very_ familiar twinkling eyes.

"In hindsight," Agvald spoke with a wry grin, looking down at Garret's normal hand, "I believe some warning would have been proper, eh?"

Garret followed the man's gaze, and his jaw almost went slack when he saw he was still clutching the mug of grog from the bar. Already a myriad of excuses formed in his mind and made their way to his throat, where they would be voiced in an eloquent and diplomatic matter, but the elderly Summoner waved him off before he could speak. "I am certain the owner of that little bar isn't too worried," he said in a placating manner. "'Tis only a mug after all."

"I suppose…" Garret mused, looking down at the container in his hand. "Still. I'd best return this as soon as possible – out of principle, if nothing else."

"Of course," the Freljordian Summoner responded, and motioned to a small end table off to the side. "You can place it there, if you wish, until you finish this particular match. As soon as it's done I will transport you right back where you came from," he said with a smile. That ever-bright orb of magic hovered above his one outstretched hand, pulsating with magic and power. Garret gave an affirmative nod, set the mug down on the table, and strode up to the small runic array carved into the altar.

"Greener pastures, you say," Garret mused, eyeing the array with a critical gaze. It seemed different – larger, for one, and the runes glowed a dull bronze instead of the mottled black-and-silver light they gave off when he stepped into the Treeline.

"Greener pastures indeed," Agvald nodded contentedly. "The array is ready for you, Mister Hillock – all you need to do is take that crucial step forward."

"One step, hmm," Garret mused, teetering at the edge of the small altar. That feeling of trepidation he had felt last time had returned – but it was a lesser emotion now, more _hollow_, actually. He felt that ever-telling spark of excitement in his core, and he didn't need to gaze at his arm to see that it was glowing quite giddily. "Well at least it will not be so difficult this time," he said with a nervous, yet genuine smile, and his human hand wrapped around the wrist of his mutated arm. He faced Agvald for a last time, and his smile grew that much wider for it. _Let us hope there aren't any spectral children awaiting me this time.._.

And with final thought, he stepped forwards again, and let the magic swallow him whole.

* * *

The first thing he noticed, even before the maelstrom of magical light dispersed, was the smell. Gone was the putrid sulphurous stench of the pool of not-mercury, replaced by an almost _pristine_ outdoor air brimming with the scents of untouched, untainted nature. He smelt a hint of pine on the wind, as well as the tell-tale scent of some kind of stream, and despite himself, he felt some of his tension dissipate. Finally the light died down, and he blinked the brightness away so he could take in his surroundings.

Immediately he saw a pale blue sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds and a dazzling sun hanging in the distance. He felt the cold from the Summoning Chamber evaporate as the golden rays enveloped him, and a chuckle poured from his throat at the sight. The camp before him was slightly similar to the one he saw in the Treeline – but not nearly as morbid. The stones lining the floor were light and grey and well-maintained instead of the mottled, damp stone of the Treeline, and instead of moss covering the ground, blades of grass rose from in-between the openings amongst the small tiles.

Without a sliver of hesitation he stepped forward, his eyes already locked on the lush, green treetops peering out at him from over the camp's ramparts. His boots tapped softly against the smooth stone beneath his feet, not an echo to be heard in vast openness of the stunning landscape. Finally he reached the middle opening in the ramparts, a small gateway to allow the Champions down into the Field of Justice – and into the verdant green forest below them.

From where he stood, it was a beautiful sight – seemingly a mix of _just_ the right amounts of forest and valley, looking more like an idyllic paradise than a battlefield. It was… rather difficult, to believe that people actually fought and killed in this place.

The altar far behind him thrummed again, bursting to life with a gale force of magic that made the tails of Garret's duster flutter even at that distance. Just like it was on the Treeline, a pillar of light shot into the sky, making the already deep blue hue shine even brighter, if such a thing was at all possible. Garret turned on his heel, gazing at the radiating altar, wondering exactly which new faces he'd be meeting.

"_Our opponents differ as well, no doubt,_" Furia mused from within his mind. "_I wonder if we will finally face the falconer in combat._" Again, Garret felt that alien pang of excitement with him, more pronounced and clear than ever, and he was almost certain his abnormal, deadened limb was _quaking_ from the anticipation. "_More than a hundred great warriors walk the Institute's halls. I cannot wait to see who we will face this time."_

'_Far be it from me to try and dampen your spirits,'_ Garret said inwardly, chuckling. '_With Agvald at the helm there is a very good chance you will be fighting much more than you did when we were on the Treeline.'_ Despite him believing it to be impossible, his mutant limb pulsed brighter than he had ever seen before, and now he was _certain_ the arm was, indeed, trembling. '_Just… Well, I do not want to coax extra conditions out of you, Furia,'_ he said tentatively, '_but please… at least try not to lose yourself to the fight completely if one of our allies is in need of aid.'_

"_I… will try, Garret,"_ Furia admitted, somewhat lamely. "_Restraint… It is not something I practiced in life. I…"_ She trailed off, and for the briefest, _briefest_ moment, Garret swore he felt a hint of bitterness not at all his own within himself. "_I did not have allies,_" Furia said softly. "_I was considered an outcast, by both your people and mine - a mad beast to be kept away from. Restraint… is alien to me."_ There was something subtle in Furia's voice – an undertone Garret couldn't rightly place. "_Nonetheless,"_ the spirit of violence spoke. "_I will try, as hard as I can."_

'_That is all I ask,'_ Garret said in a placating manner, smiling despite himself. It seemed there was much about Furia he did not know – and it appeared there was more than just a bloodthirsty, battle-crazed warmaiden underneath the surface. His first instinct was to try and coax her into opening up, if only just a little – but that subtle hint of bitterness he had felt from her…

He knew it well; well enough to know he had no business trying to tend to her wounds.

Then, with a final howl, the maelstrom died down – and Garret _immediately_ recognised his first ally. The unruly, carroty beard, the titanic belly, and the state of near-nudity were all dead giveaways. "Gragas?" He greeted, his familiar skew smile appearing on his face. The mix of confusion and relief in his voice drew a hearty, if somewhat drunken, fit of laughter from the perpetually inebriated brawler as the latter waddled down the altar steps with all the grace of an intoxicated elephant. "You signed up for this as well?"

"Got hand-picked!" Gragas slurred, his wide smile shining out from beneath the undergrowth of red facial hair. He paused for a moment, and hiccupped loudly, and decided the solution to being inebriated was to get _more_ inebriated, apparently, as he raised the giant keg he held under one arm and took a large, messy guzzle of grog. "Summoners told me you was fighting on the Rift," he said with a red nose and a jovial bark of laughter. "Asked me if was willin' to join ya. How could I say no, eh? So here I am!"

"Here you are," Garret agreed with a nod. He had very few friends in the Institute of War, so he had long since come to terms with the fact that he would be stepping onto the Fields of Justice with a group of complete strangers most times – despite that, though, there was a degree of comfort to be found in the fact that at least _one_ familiar face close by. "What is this place?" He asked, looking at the lush canopy of green poking out above the walls of the encampment again.

"Summoner's Rift!" Gragas said jovially, and took another big swig from his cask. Slowly he started to waddle towards the one exit leading down into the verdant jungles and valleys below. "Not the craziest field they got, but it's sure as hell the bigges'. Yer lady-friend's gon' be quite happy here – lots o' fightin' to be done."

"She is quite aware of that, I assure you," Garret said with a chuckle, as his right arm glowed brightly again. "Summoner's Rift, you say… What an ill-fitting name."

"Don't be gawkin' at the scenery too much," Gragas chortled, nudging Garret with his elbow. "I've seen who we're fightin' with. Place is gonna get right messed up soon."

The moment those words left the rotund brawler's mouth, the Summoning Altar behind them howled again as another azure column of blinding light pierced the skies above them. The gale pouring from the stone array seemed more_ intense_ somehow – it didn't merely make Garret's duster billow this time; it outright buffeted him, forcing him to take a step back and try to stand his ground lest he was blown away by the sudden whirlwind. "Two o' them," he heard Gragas call to him over the wailing winds. The brawler had no problem standing his ground, despite his beard flailing around madly like a flag caught in a crosswind. Dimly, Garret made out two distinct forms standing in the pillar of light – one unbelievably tiny, and one _disproportionately _big.

The wailing winds died down and the lights started to dim, eventually, and _just_ before the obscuring brightness disappeared a loud _whoop!_ and an even _louder_ explosion sounded across the open stone clearing, and the tiny figure was sent _flying_ through air with a gleeful, almost child-like laugh before landing a few feet from them with a loud _thud_ of steel against stone. Garret blinked once, and when he opened his eyes he saw a _colossal _cannon-like firearm being hurled back, and with practiced, almost gymnastic ease its tiny wielder flipped herself back and up, landing on the top of the impromptu pedestal – and revealing herself to be a Yordle, surprisingly.

She giggled again as she sat atop her gun-like pedestal, grinning widely as her large, pierced ears twitched back and forth happily. Wide, gleaming eyes quickly flitted over to Garret and Gragas, and the tiny gunner offered them a courteous yet energetic wave. "We're fighting with the new guy?" She remarked, her grin never leaving her face. "Sweet! That's always fun."

Garret offered her a polite wave in return, and a courteous nod as he observed her more keenly. Bandle City had been one of the few places he hadn't dared go near while he was on the run, so he did not know much about their social structures, but going by the goggles perched atop a mop of messy silver hair, the practical outfit, and the amount of knick-knacks and gadgets adorning her belt and pockets, the scholar pegged her as one of the famed Bandle Gunners quite easily.

The giant cannon that was almost double the tiny woman's size also factored into that assumption, he admitted.

He was about to offer her a kind greeting, maybe some idle small-talk before their match started, but his words caught in his throat. An uncomfortable knot formed in his stomach, and an unpleasant taste scratched at the back of his throat suddenly. A familiar sense of unease enveloped him, a feeling he'd come to know well the few times he'd taken refuge in places like Bilgewater and Zaun. It was sense of wariness, a sense of _scorn_, so to say – and he was quite certain the adorable little Yordle before him couldn't be the cause. '_Something troubling you, Furia?'_ He asked cautiously, eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze towards the ground. He made a face as he tried to shake off the familiar emotions.

"_This… This dark presence… it is... __**odd.**__"_

_Hm?_ Garret blinked once, caught unawares before he realised Furia couldn't possibly be talking about the Bandle Gunner who'd just catapulted herself towards him and Gragas. That left only the second new addition to the merry band of misfits he was made a part of, so despite his uncomfortable expression, he turned to face the person who had accompanied that merry little Yordle onto the rift.

The tophat was the first feature he noticed, a shred of normalcy adorning an otherwise abnormal beast. Sickly yellow eyes gazed at him from a head seemingly equal parts frog and catfish, and a terrifyingly wide maw lined with jagged, razor-sharp teeth grinned darkly at him. The creature was stout, almost as much as Gragas was, and its body was coloured a pale, _pale_ green along the chin and belly. Ringed fingers on short, stubby arms pulled at the lapels of a well-worn coat, stretched to its limits.

The sight was so alien, so abnormal and strange, that Garret didn't even notice the altar flaring to life as their fifth ally stepped into the Rift. He kept his eyes on the being before him, refusing to avert his gaze from something that could discomfort Furia in such a way.

The creature licked its lips. "Looks like you're suffering from a bit of indigestion, friend," it spoke heartily, with a deep, almost charming baritone belying the monstrous nature of its physical form. It gazed hungrily at Garret's arm, and a second row of teeth, and then a third, quickly sprouted from the gums lining its wide muzzle. "I may have a remedy for that," it said, baring seemingly _thousands_ of fangs.

Garret _heard_ the snarl in the back of his head before he felt the emotion that accompanied it. Trepidation turned to revulsion, discomfort turned to outrage and that red tint around his vision _bled_ into everything he saw – gone were the colours of everyday vision, replaced by black silhouettes on a crimson canvas. "_He is welcome to __**try**__!"_ Furia growled. "_This presense… It is familiar – familiar and __**abhorrent**__! I hated this fiend's kind… almost as much I hated my own."_

Slowly, though, the bubbling emotions faded away, and Garret regained his normal vision, and he heard Furia sigh deeply and morosely as she recomposed herself. _So she hated her own people…_ A slip of the tongue in the midst of a tirade had dropped yet another small tidbit of information, a small peek at what lay beneath the bloodthirst. Still, Garret locked that piece of information away, trying to forget about it.

She would tell him of what ailed her spirit when she was ready, he thought. Until then, it was pointless to ponder.

Only then did he notice that the Yordle girl had appeared before him. She stood almost defiantly between himself and the catfish-monster, fists balled and propped on her hips, and cheeks slightly puffed out. "Back off, Tubbo," she said warningly. "Save the cravings for our enemies."

Yellow eyes blinked owlishly at the small person's warning, before the vast rows of teeth receded back into the monsters maw, and it let out a somewhat bashful chuckle. "Seems I've overstepped," it said, sounding at least a bit ashamed. "Forgive me," it spoke, looking over the Yordle's head and right at Garret. "Been a while since I've beheld such a _divine_ feast. In the face of such a delicacy it's easy to forget there ain't a seat reserved for big ol' me." A flick of the monster's obscenely large tongue sent its tophat tumbling down into its hand, and the being offered Garret an almost _courteous_ bow. "Tahm's the name," it said with a grin. "Tahm Kench. At least, for a _while_ it is."

"_It lies,"_ he heard Furia hiss. The sneer was almost _audible_. "_I care not what it calls itself, it __**lies**__,"_ she said hotly. "_Do _not_ trust him, Garret."_

"Yer gonna get a bad few cramps from all the eatin' you've been doing recently," Gragas broke the silence, before taking a swig of his grog and turning on his heel to face Garret and the Bandle Gunner. "Our fifth just got here," he said, motioning to one of the other gates. "Shall we get goin' then?"

Garret blinked once, twice, before it clicked. Of _course_ the fifth member of their team had already arrived, why _else_ would the Altar have gone haywire. He looked around with a confused expression – after all, they hadn't been approached by anyone new after Tahm's discomforting introduction. Had they kept their distance, upon seeing the food-obsessed monster baring its teeth?

He managed to catch the _briefest_ of glimpses of his fifth ally just before their figure disappeared to the gateway at the far end of the clearing. The only things the scholar could identify with _certainty_ were the broken sword, and the mop of white hair.

_How odd,_ he thought at first, before shrugging. Of course, not everyone in the Institute's ranks would be as sociable as Jax or Gragas. He could not fault those who weren't; even he had embraced the more obscure, antisocial approaches to life at times. Despite all the hollowness such a life could provide, it was an excellent road to embark on in some of Valoran's more… _unfavourable_ locations.

"I will not lie," Garret said, turning to face his other allies and looking right at Gragas. "Something you said earlier has me more than a little apprehensive. Something about the Rift getting 'messed up' rather soon?" He spoke, but trudged forwards nonetheless, the beginnings of that crooked smile on his face despite his trepidation regarding the encroaching battle.

"No matter," he said hesitantly. "This battle is not going to fight itself…"

* * *

Despite all his greatest efforts to calm himself and rationalise the _necessity_ of fighting on the Fields of Justice, that foreboding feeling of faint fear and stubborn hesitation never truly left him – even after the reasonable success he'd experienced on the Twisted Treeline. Garret frowned. His heart was hammering in his throat and he was quite certain his stomach had turned to _mist_.

What a _despicably_ familiar feeling.

They had scattered the moment they stepped into the undergrowth of the Rift's forested areas. The reasoning behind it had been valid enough, in Garret's opinion – they could cover more ground, relay the identities and-or abilities of their foes to each other through their Summoners and, as a bonus, Tahm Kench's presence in their merry band of misfits meant they could set up a whole myriad of traps.

Garret felt ashamed about the fact that he stopped listening after the word 'trap' was uttered. It wasn't that he didn't care about his allies' plans and procedures, because he did, truly. But the Yordle girl – Tristana, she'd introduced herself as – went off on a tangent about the different kinds of traps they could set and while her energy regarding the subject was quite contagious, the scholar found himself unable to keep up with the sheer amount of military lingo the bubbly gunner had been using.

He only prayed he could interpret Agvald's signals properly.

As it was, he found himself rushing through the Rift's undergrowth at a steady pace, not really sprinting but not walking leisurely either. He might not have been much of a fighter, he thought as he vaulted over a fallen tree before sliding under another, but his years on the run had at least ensured that he was above-average when it came to navigating terrain. He narrowed his eyes as the jungle sped past him while he ran, looking for that _one_ stray stone or branch that he could use to his own advantage.

_There_.

Without slowing down he _leapt_ at a rather large tree before him, planting his soles into the bark and kicking upwards, propelling himself _just_ high enough to grab hold of the thick branch protruding outwards. Despite grimacing at the strain on his shoulder, he smiled slightly when he realised his deadened right arm had _no_ trouble hoisting him up further into the tree. He paused there, standing on the tree branch, and tried to catch his breath as he gazed at the twisted black limb through new eyes. '_That… That is new,'_ he mused inwardly.

"_I take it you are unused to… scaling trees, so easily?" _Furia asked him. The warmaiden had calmed down considerably since they had left Tahm's presence. Now, though – now her excitement was palpable, pooling in Garret's stomach and thrashing about like a hound waiting to be released. A part of him wanted to ask her to tone it down – after all, bloodthirst was _not_ an emotion he wanted to get into the habit of entertaining. He didn't have the heart, though. Necessity dictated that Furia shackle herself after her release on the Treeline – the 'thrill of battle' had to be postponed so Quinn could be saved and so Sion could be defeated. Now, though…

That was the other reason Garret so readily agreed to split up, despite his inherent, instinctive fear at the concept. If he were alone and he encountered an enemy, then Furia could cut loose – she could fight as fiercely and as manically as she wanted.

_That_ was part of what he promised her, after all.

'_You speak as though the concept of climbing trees is something alien to you,_' Garret joked inwardly as he ascended the giant tree, nimbly moving from branch to branch as he breached the canopy of the jungle.

"_I had no need to climb trees,"_ Furia said simply. "_Tree-climbing was for foes who attempted to escape me."_

The statement drew a short bark of laughter from the scholar. By now he had gotten used to Furia's relentless, indomitable confidence, even in death. She had abolished any notion of him calling it 'arrogance' with her performance on the Treeline, slaying the Chain Warden _twice_ and helping stop a monster of a man who Garret doubted even _understood_ the concept of 'stopping'. '_Well, then, we will know where to look when your foes start running this time,'_ he said glibly.

To his pleasant surprise, that quip managed to draw a short, yet _genuine_ laugh from Furia.

He refocused himself quickly after that. Keen eyes picked out a somewhat stable track of branches he could use to traverse the jungle's canopy, and he quickly set about darting from tree to tree. Every leap made his heart constrict painfully, but as much as he did not _want_ to admit it, the sheer thrill of the action managed to negate it somewhat.

Soon he reached a specific cluster of branches that allowed him a great view of an open clearing. Instinct born from his connection with Agvald had led him here – apparently, there was an ally waiting, and the familiar jungle of orange facial hair proved the Summoner correct again. Gragas was lazing about in the clearing, taking the occasional guzzle from his cask or pausing to swat at a passing butterfly. At first glance the rotund brawler seemed almost _bored_ – but careful inspection proved the contrary; the Rabble Rouser was waiting for something… or _someone_.

Garret followed the drunkard's gaze, looking to the far end of the clearing, and a ghostly roar flashed in his mind and fear's cold grip seized his heart again when he saw that distinct, ominous green _glow_ pierce the undergrowth of the jungle. Panic set in almost immediately, and he cringed – would he have to face Thresh _again_? Agvald _had_ warned him that he'd made an enemy, true, but the scholar hardly expected the maniacal sadist to appear so soon once again. He started drumming his fingers against the bark of the tree he was perched in, waiting for the maelstrom of sickly green magics and the tell-tale scrape of chains to signal the Warden's arrival – but only then did Garret notice something he'd missed; something that made his stomach _churn_.

There where the green glare drifted, wafting through the undergrowth and from in-between the trees, nature itself seemed to _die_.

It was a sight morbid enough to make the scholar _wince_ – the ghostly green glow seemed to _drink_ the very life from the plants and trees around it; bark turned black and peeled away as the wood beneath it turned ashen and started to crumble, and the undergrowth withered and shrivelled under the necromantic onslaught, falling to the ground and breaking apart as a chorus of wailing voices filtered into the clearing.

The light peaked then – and its wielder made himself known with a sickening smirk adorning his hollow features.

Red and black clothing swirled in an ethereal manner as the lich hovered forwards, ominous staff clasped in one atrophied hand, eldritch tome grasped in the other. Deadened, snowy hair tumbled out from under the sides of the cowl adorning the living corpse's head, and an amused smile tugged at torn lips adorning gaunt, almost _hollowed_ cheeks – and not once did those green eyes even blink.

Garret forgot how to breathe for a few seconds.

That monstrous person fit the description his brother had used so long ago. Clothing equal parts blood red and black velvet, a book bound in what seemed to be human skin and a visage of death and decay so great it repulsed him just to _look_ at it.

That… That was the Deathsinger.

"_Another undead thrall?"_ Furia asked, her lip _audibly_ curling at the sight.

'_No… No, no, the Deathsinger is no thrall…'_ Garret admitted, swallowing several times to dispel the feeling of cotton lining his throat. '_My brother always claimed he used vile magics, with 'oblivion' as its source…'_ Already he could feel the tremors shaking his form – and could he truly be blamed for him? The Deathsinger was one of the figures Aaron always used to fuel Garret's nightmares when the elder Ranger was feeling particularly mischievous – now, here he stood, witnessing the approach of an arch-lich who wielded _death_ as though it were a usual magical element.

"_Garret?"_ Furia seemed to pick up on his unease, her voice sounding concerned, lacking the excited edge it held moments prior. "_Would you prefer to seek a different opponent?"_

'_What…?'_ The question caught Garret off guard, and he blinked before shaking his head. '_No, no… Gragas might need our assistance against the Deathsinger…'_ Already, his erratic vision sought a path to traverse down into the clearing, and he was starting to will his body into moving despite being rooted to the spot by a wave of fear. '_I need a way to get down there…'_ He spied an errant branch, a few feet before him – no way to traverse the canopy to it, but… '_Do you think I could make it if I jumped?'_ He asked, eyeing the thick trunk-like branch with a critical eye.

"_Don't be preposterous,"_ Furia responded, and Garret couldn't help but grin shakily when he heard the note of panic and haste in her voice – as though the prospect of him leaping a gap of unknown distance while up so _high_ didn't appeal to her in the least. "_Our arm can help you ascend trees easily – doubtless you can _descend_ with the same amount of effort."_

'_I suppose,_' the scholar agreed, frowning slightly. The thought of descending from the canopy of the jungle the usual way had crossed his mind, but… it would be a slow and complex process. Those were two elements Gragas could not afford if he were to be aided against the Deathsinger. Nonetheless, if it had to be done… Garret scanned the tree he was taking refuge in, making note of any vines or stray branches. Easily enough he found a way to descend from one tree to the next, and the next thereafter. It would be a time-consuming process… but considering he couldn't survive a two-hundred foot drop down onto the jungle floor, it was only option. '_Slow and steady, then,'_ Garret said with a nod, grasping hold of one of the thick vines trailing down the side of the massive tree.

"_Garret,"_ he heard Furia's voice all of a sudden, and the note of urgency in her tone had doubled, at least. "_Garret, the stout one is outnumbered!"_

Garret blinked as he registered Furia's words, before quickly and fearfully looking back to where Gragas stood in the clearing beneath him, just as a rumbling reached his ears. With a mighty ruckus, the trees to the east of the clearing _splintered_ as a maelstrom of bark and roots surged forward to the Deathsinger's side. It sundered the earth, forcing it aside under its twisted advance, and ultimately came to a stop beside the still-smirking Lich.

Three different roars greeted them – one a tiny screech, courtesy of a bulb-like little sapling standing atop the behemoth, green eyes squint and toothless mouth pulled into a sneer, one from a sneering face carved into the back of the treant's behemoth arm, and one courtesy of the treant itself, a mangled mess of bark, wood, moss and branches shaped and moulded into a humanoid form. Its true face, the crest-adorned head carved onto wide, sturdy shoulders, sneered with its toothless mouth as its eyes, green and livid, projected palpable scorn and hatred towards the rotund brawler.

Garret observed the scene with mounting panic and concern, and despite himself he let out a soft _yelp_ of fright when Gragas himself had to quickly dart to the side just as a _disgusting_ blob of greenish ichor descended from above, _searing_ its way through the jungle's canopy before slamming into the spot Gragas had previously occupied with all the force of a _cannonball._ A mirthful myriad of phlegm-soaked giggles, a dozen voices flowing from the same throat, signalled the airborne attacker just as a greyish-white insectoid… _thing_ waddled into the clearing and sat obediently beside the Deathsinger, its four eyes wide and shining with innocence not entirely unlike that of a puppy. Its wide maw remained open, moving slightly as the creature inhaled rapidly, and the appendage hidden behind its jaw – a cross between a tongue and another mouth – lolled about without a care in the world, dripping caustic spittle onto the earth beneath.

'_Dammit, dammit, dammit…'_ Garret seethed where he stood, both at the downright unfair circumstances his drunken friend now found himself in _and_ at the sudden urge to turn tail and bolt. The treant could move faster than anything its size had any _right_ to, the little white worm-thing could _weaponise its own spit _and to finalise the downright dreadful circumstances his team had been facing, the Deathsinger was there too. A part of him – a very, _very_ major part at that – wanted nothing more than to flee, to hurry back to the fountain, maybe find Tristana and that catfish-monster and return to planning again…

…But over the years, Garret had grown quite accustomed to ignoring that large, cowardly part of him, and listening to the voice of reason nagging in the back of his mind.

And that voice was now telling him someone he considered a friend was in trouble.

'_Furia,'_ he spoke inwardly, shaking his head and ignoring how his heart hammered in his chest. '_I need something edged, used for piercing. A climbing axe, maybe, or a pickaxe – it matters not, so long as it can pierce this tree trunk.'_

"_Garret, I…"_ Furia started. "_My weapons are forged from blood and smoke. They… are not as sturdy as normal arms. I cannot guarantee it will hold under your weight."_

'_I do not need it to hold under my weight,'_ Garret responded as he glanced at his twisted arm. The tainted flesh ran all the way up and past his shoulder – the limb had been completely deadened during their union… and he was intending to use (and abuse) that property as much as he could. '_I merely need it to slow my descent.'_

Though he received no verbal response, he could tell his spiritual tenant was reluctant to go with the idea. Nonetheless, the acquiesced, and a crude, basic, yet somehow _sleek_ pickaxe formed in Garret's human hand. He spared but a moment to give the tool a few experimental swings, before standing and steadying himself on the branch he had been scouting from. '_Well… Let us hope this works…'_ With those words, he took a deep breath, and hopped back off the branch.

Gravity set into motion _immediately_, and Garret felt his innards shift upwards as he plummeted down to the undergrowth. The height was short enough to ensure the fall wasn't fatal – but it was _too_ high to avoid debilitating injuries. With a snarl, Garret swung the axe in his hand, embedding its blade through the bark and into the wood beneath. The sudden jerk sent a jolt of pain running up his arm, and he found himself letting go of the axe before it could promptly shatter under the sudden weight. It had served its purpose well, though – Garret's descent had been slowed _just_ enough for him to slam his numbed hand into the bark and dig his fingers in. The surface of the tree shattered beneath the combination of the arm's abnormal strength and the force with which he was being pulled back to the ground, but the greatest danger had been averted.

Garret let go of the tree and dropped the final dozen feet without a hitch, tucking his body into a roll as his feet hit the ground.

Immediately he was back on his feet, darting towards the clearing where Gragas had been ambushed despite every possible instinct – both his and Furia's – _screaming_ at him not to. His gait was slightly lopsided as he clutched at his normal shoulder. It had been hurt when he had taken that shortcut to the ground, but he couldn't focus much on it now – not while he had an ally in need of assistance. Offhandedly he noticed that ever-pleasant tug of warmth at his senses, and the red tinting the edges of his vision seeped ever closer to the centre of his sight.

'_This… is happening much faster than it did on the Treeline,'_ Garret observed as he sprinted. Even his traversal speed had been affected – he was used to using both arms to help him navigate terrain, and the current ache in his shoulder, one that morphed into a _jolt_ of pain at the merest sign of pressure, served only to hinder that.

"_The old deceiver is at work,"_ Furia mused, and despite the fact that Garret _knew_, in no uncertain terms, that the warmaiden was trying to remain concerned and level-headed, the fact that her voice had the merest hint of a quiver to it told him her excitement and eagerness were returning in full force. "_It would seem he is quite skilled at handling the magics sustaining this place…"_ She said, before trailing off, her sudden wariness leaking through into Garret's being. "_We approach, Garret – be wary, and move softly."_

He did just that – immediately, he went from a pseudo-sprint to a reserved, crouching shuffle forward, making sure to keep to the foliage as much as possible. As much as he wanted to help Gragas out of the titanic mess that was undoubtedly unfolding in the clearing ahead, he doubted getting caught flat-footed with an injured shoulder would do so.

With tentative movements he pulled a cluster of ferns aside, narrowing his eyes and focusing his senses as best he could as he tried to observe what was happening in the clearing. Barging in and yelling at the top of his voice didn't strike him as one of the best plans of action, after all.

"_It has been quite a while, brewmaster,"_ Garret heard the Deathsinger speak. The cold echo of undeath did nothing to hinder the velvety charisma such a being would possess. There was a degree of confidence hidden in the Deathsinger's intrigued voice – as though he were aware of something nobody else knew; it was a subtle sense of smugness which, now that Garret had heard it, he could not ignore. "_Last we met, I recall you snapped my staff."_

"Snapped yer spine too, I remember," Gragas shrugged noncommittally, before grinning like an idiot. "Ya flopped about like a fish outta water after that."

"_Charming,_" the Deathsinger replied with a frown and a tone of voice that implied the brawler's reminiscence was anything _but_. "_I am quite disappointed to be honest,_" he mused with a sour expression. "_The enlightenment of death is squandered on the inebriated…"_

"I'unno," Gragas said with a shrug. "I felt plenty enlightened last time I bashed yer face in with this," he chuckled, giving the keg clutched beneath his arm a hearty pat.

The Deathsinger's face seemed to fall just a bit more, Garret noticed – and the treant by the arch-lich's side seemed to bristle as it gazed at Gragas. "_Such a simple mind_," the undead spoke ruefully. "_It must be quite blissful, waddling through life with no greater purpose than seeking out the next ingredient for that repugnant brew."_ Garret shuddered as the lich's voice echoed – the way the hovering corpse spoke such derogatory words with such a casual demeanour reminded him far too much of Thresh. "_And yet… are you truly any closer to finding that key reagent, than you were when you started your little journey, Rabble Rouser?"_ He asked with a grin. "_Stout as you are, your strength is waning… Time weathers those old bones of yours better than any Freljordian gale ever could… Not so, brewmaster?"_

Gragas, despite all logic, seemed to ponder the unholy being's words, idly scratching at his beard and gazing off into the undergrowth, as though being outnumbered three to one hardly fazed him. "Y'know," he said with a curious tone. "Ya ain't wrong…"

"_Of course I'm not,_" the Deathsinger replied smugly. "_Life, after all, is so pitifully fleeting… Just imagine what you could achieve in death. Ponder all the brews you could concoct, all the traditions and techniques you could create over an eternity of immortal existence. Is that not food for thought?"_

Gragas pondered the words for a moment longer – before smiling dumbly, to Garret's shocked surprise, and shrugging light-heartedly. "Nope," he said simply, popping the 'p' as well as a perpetually inebriated man could. "That'd be boring," he said. "Can't have a legacy if yer still livin', can ya?" He grinned.

That… That was one way to view it, Garret admitted despite the confusion roiling within his mind. He rolled his injured shoulder, noticing that the pain was already starting to subside rather quickly. Now, if only he could think of a way to aid Gragas against such impossible odds. "_You seem unperturbed by your inevitable end, brewmaster,"_ the Deathsinger said icily. "_If that is truly the case… why not let us help you to it?"_

With those words, the treant beside the lich _snarled_ and shot forwards, the roots coiling around its feet sundering the earth as its twisted advance carved a path towards the rotund brawler through nature itself. It was as though the pale, earthen magic wafted off its form, basking mangled bark and dead leaves in an eerie blue glow, and the sneer on its main face seemed that much more intimidating for it.

Garret only barely restrained a gasp as the treant attacked, with speeds no being of such a size should ever be capable of. Instinctively he tried to focus, to clear his mind, to do all those Ionian-inspired things in the hope of creating just a _bit_ of equilibrium between himself and Furia, but despite her excitement – and _surprise_ – becoming more palpable, he could sense the disappointment from her already. It wasn't working. '_Furia, can you –' _He started to ask inwardly, but his voice failed him when the bow he had in mind formed in his hand with several loud cracks and hisses. Plain again, just like all Furia's weapons, he noted. An arrow appeared in his free hand, and he wasted no time nocking it and drawing the bowstring back. His arm swayed uncomfortably, though, unused to aiming a bow – it was a setback that served only to make him grit his teeth in frustration and annoyance. There was no way he could –

The grassy knoll at the far end of the clearing, behind Gragas, suddenly writhed and bucked and heaved and a sickening, almost famished snarl echoed across the rift, a sound that served to make Gragas grin with an amount of confidence unbefitting of his inebriated visage. The knoll seemed to implode, collapsing on itself as the earth sank inwards, swirling like a vortex, growing bigger as it seemed to swallow up a good portion of the clearing.

Then the ground exploded outwards, like water thrown up into a wild burst, and with a manic grin, the sickly-green form of Tahm Kench leapt from the whirlpool. His grin widened when he saw the treant rushing towards Gragas, showcasing all those sinister yellow teeth in all their gleaming glory, before rearing back mid-jump and hacking loudly. The monster's maw opened wider than Garret had ever _seen_ a maw open, and a _blur_ of blue, white and black flew skywards from the fish-man's mouth, twirling elegantly despite its small stature. Garret let out a muted bark of laughter when he recognised Tristana there in the air, and with a quick spin the Yordle woman's cannon was trained _right_ on the advancing treant.

She offered it naught but a wry smile and a downright _cheeky_ wink before pulling the trigger.

The report from the cannon was _deafening_, one that almost made Garret stumble as he tracked Tristana's descent. The cannonball she'd fired, a seemingly _molten_ glob of explosive steel, soared down towards the clearing like a comet, and crashed into the advancing treant with a sound akin to a thunderclap. The ground shook underfoot as a tremendous cloud of dust and smoke rose, and Garret only barely saw the treant's figure fly back and crash down before the Deathsinger's feet with a loud growl. Its behemoth arm had been reduced to splinters, and the side of its face had been charred badly.

Tristana landed daintily beside Gragas, blowing an errant lock of white hair out of her face with a boyish chuckle before aiming her cannon at the Deathsinger's frowning visage. "Sorry we're late, Graggy," she said cheerily. "What'd we miss?"

"Jus' a sermon," Gragas laughed heartily. "A right borin' one at that. Really if that shrub didn't attack I'd have fallen asleep."

"Preachin' before a fight, child?" Tahm asked with a grin, sauntering up to his two allies while tugging at the lapels of his coat. "Save it. You're about as charismatic as a jester at a funeral," he said with a wide smile, before turning a gleaming glance towards the Deathsinger's robes. "And you're dressed for the part, to boot!"

Garret watched as the now-mangled treant clambered onto its feet and shot a baleful glare at Tristana, who in turn stuck her tongue out at him, while the Deathsinger regarded the whole affair with a pensive frown. "_What an unusual group…_" He commented dryly. "_I'm quite surprised the fish hasn't eaten one of you yet. I suppose, however, that the pleasantries are over. A pity…"_

Then the Deathsinger turned – and looked Garret _right in the eye_.

The scholar felt his body go _painfully_ rigid as the undead aberration locked eyes with him, bright emerald meeting pale, sickly green as the lich regarded him curiously. A part of him told himself to adjust his shaky aim, to turn the drawn arrow towards the lich and loose it, at least so this painfully cold stare-down could end – but a sudden burst of fear kept him rooted in place. The Deathsinger noticed this, and his pensive expression vanished – replaced by a cruel smirk that brought memories of ghastly giggles and scraping chains flooding into Garret's mind.

Then the lich spoke.

"_Enough games,"_ his lips moved, and suddenly the lich was looking _behind_ him. "_Kill him now."_

A _cry_ of surprise from the recesses of his mind and a burst of instinct spurred his frozen body into movement, as a knee-jerk reaction inherited from a centuries-old warmaiden propelled him to side just as the jagged dirk zipped by the side of his head, severing a few hairs in the process. Steel glinted in the dark undergrowth and Garret only _barely_ raised his bow in time to stop a second dirk from forcing its way into his neck. His own self-preservation instinct worked in tandem with skills of a warrior long dead resting in his mind, propelling him backwards and away from the sudden maelstrom of fatal strikes and crippling swipes. It was all happening so fast – flashes of red and black and white and a wide, sinister smile, frozen in place, blinked before Garret as he eschewed analysis in favour of _staying alive_, and all the while that _terrifying_ cackle bounced off the tress around them and danced in his ears.

He winced as one of the dirks caught him on the cheek, opening a cut that stretched across his nose, and bit his cheek to keep from crying out when the other dirk dug a shallow wound into the nook of his collarbone. Immediately he felt his senses his dull – he felt the muscles in his arms and legs constrict painfully, and suddenly every swing felt as though it took whole lungfuls of air. All the while his assailant danced around him, cackling madly as he trailed wisps of amber smoke in the wake of his attacks.

Finally a _savage_ kick caught Garret clean in the stomach, and he was propelled backwards, stumbling and swaying in a bid to stay on his feet. The bow in his hands shattered like glass, dispersing into puffs of crimson smoke as the scholar blearily tried to blink away the sudden fogginess in his vision. "Aren't _you_ a stubborn one…?" He heard his assailant speak, voice shrill and _oozing_ madness, and warily Garret looked up. Both confusion and panic mounted when he saw the traditional jester's garb adorning his assailant's body, patches of black and white stitched together into a perverse parody of a circus entertainer's outfit – but the face…

Garret shuddered, _visibly_ if the evil clown's mad cackle was anything to go by, when he saw that twisted porcelain mask adorning the monster's face. The brow was knitted into a constant scowl hovering over empty, almost soulless eyes, and the inhuman grin that stretched past the mask's cheekbones and almost past its chin could only be described as _sadistic_.

"_Garret? Garret!"_ He finally heard Furia's voice echoing in the recesses of his mind – it sounded distant, distant and distorted, almost so much so that he nearly missed the note of panic it carried. All semblance of excitement and eagerness had _evaporated_. "_Host, please… That thing… I cannot read its heart!"_ He heard her cry. "_Garret that thing is not human! That thing is beyond you!"_ She warned. "_Please_, please_ focus, Garret! I am trying to –"_

"You…" The jester said threateningly, its voice icy cold despite the grin on its glassy face as it pointed a bloodstained dirk at Garret's chest. "You need to stop struggling," it said with an audible sneer. "You're _ruining_ the joke, and I hate hecklers!"

Again, Garret felt that discomforting tug in the back of mind, and he tried – he truly, _truly_ did – to relinquish control to Furia; this monster, this demonic jester, seemed _leagues_ more dangerous than its appearance suggested… but once more, their transition failed, and he could _hear_ the frustrated snarl in the back of his mind as the crimson smoke wafted off his black arm. The wisps of smog curled around his arms, forming a simple yet broad shield on his left arm, and a short sword in his right hand. Already the memories flitted through his mind – steps forward, steps back, parries, stances… He gulped audibly, only hoping he could recall them all as he regarded the insane monstrosity before him.

"Oh?" The jester tilted its head as it regarded Garret's newly-formed weapons with a glint in its soulless eyes. "_You_ must be fun at parties!" It cackled madly – before seemingly _exploding_ outwards in a cloud of amber mist. "_On your guard, Garret!"_ Furia advised from within him, and Garret assumed a haphazard stance, fighting against his quaking limbs as he scanned the foliage around him.

_Something_ fell into place in his mind – a nonphysical exclamation of surprise and warning, and without thinking Garret pivoted on his heel, bringing his shield up just as the lunatic's dirks came hissing from the darkness. Their jagged tips bit into his shield, and cracks webbed their way across the kite-like surface as the insane clown resumed a relentless assault. It cackled mindlessly as its dirks bounced off Garret's shield, and every time he used his blade to swat one away the other would quickly exploit the opening.

More cuts tore their way across Garret's form – several lined his sword-arm and some criss-crossed along his shoulders. His head swam as he kept up his shoddy defence against the monster's attacks – the jester had even started toying with him. Those dirks would snake around his guard and prime themselves for a fatal strike – only to pull back as the clown blew raspberries at him from beneath its mask.

The clown relented in its assault, laughing madly as it hopped from foot to foot as it stood off to the side. "Encore, encore!" It laughed zanily. "This is too funny!" Garret cursed under his breath, swaying on his feet as the poison lacing the two shivs coursed through his body. His vision swam, his focus faltered and if his limbs weren't going completely numb he would've sworn his grip on his weapons was loosening. The jester cackled again, took a step back, and with a lightning quick movement it _hurled_ one of the dirks at him, before disappearing in another puff.

The flying blade slammed into Garret's shield with _much_ more force than the scholar anticipated, and he was sent stumbling backwards, fighting valiantly to stay afoot. He thought he could hear Furia's voice _somewhere_ in the back of his head, but it sounded so soft, so _distant_ he could barely make out make out what she was saying.

What he _did_ hear, however, was the loud _click_ of a mechanism locking in place behind him.

A sense of instinctive terror, born from years of exploring tombs, flooded Garret's body with enough adrenaline to make him spin on his heel and raise his fragmenting shield in a haphazard attempt to block whatever came his way – and none too soon, as the macabre jack-in-the-box erupted from the undergrowth, cackling with a childish tone as it spat small darts at him. He smelled sulphur, and for a moment his vision and hearing convulsed - and then the jack-in-the-box disappeared completely.

Light around him seemed to disappear as the undergrowth stretch and grew, all semblance of colour melting into mottled hues of black and gray. A loud _thwack_ behind him drew his attention, and the hissing sounds approaching him made him raise his shield, out of reflex, if nothing else. He winced and yelped as three barb-tipped arrows slammed clean through his shield, stopping mere _inches_ from his face before clattering to the ground as the sheet of defence shattered like glass.

"…what are you doing here, little brother…"

His breath left him as the ghostly voice drifted amidst the darkness, and his heart constricted _painfully_ as the shambling figure lumbered from the darkness with an ailed gait. Garret's throat dried out and his mind reeled as recognition set in – what was once the proud garb of a Demacian Ranger now hung in tatters around a pale, wounded body, and that hood – that ever-present gold-trimmed hood – bathed a hollow face in shadow.

Yet this did nothing, _nothing_, to prevent Garret from recognising his deceased brother's form.

"…you don't belong here, Garret…" The Ranger's spectre hissed, one hand grasping a faded oaken bow, half-raised. The other hand clutched another volley of arrows, just waiting to be nocked, drawn and fired. The crimson sword threatened to fall from Garret's quivering grasp, as cold fear battled against cast-iron logic -

Pain lanced across his shoulders before the spectral Ranger could commence an assault, and the dark nightmare dispersed as spots of white exploded in Garret's vision. He yelped as cold steel slid across the bone of his shoulder blades, and pitched forward as yet another slash tore upwards along the side of his spine, rattling off his ribcage as it went. Mad laughter echoed behind him as he stumbled to his knees, body numb from a mix of deadly poison and soul-chilling terror. Despite himself he looked back to where the spectral visage of his brother had stood, and blinked blearily when he saw nothing but foliage.

_An illusion…_

Distantly he heard the deafening howls of rage in the back of his mind – amidst the confusion, the fear, the pain and the numbness Garret _felt_ the lust for blood pooling around his senses. An uncharacteristic sense of fury pulled at his limbs, pushing his deadened figure into action. An alien sense of ire pushed up from his stomach – a sense of bitter distaste as the image of that tattered Demacian garb flashed through his mind. This ire joined the roiling cloud of piping hot fury that seemed to seep into his very bones, and a last time, that enraging image of the jester's face flickered in his mind's eye.

Their anger eclipsed, and bled into one raging inferno; one felt anger at having his regrets and losses turned into fear-mongering fodder, and another seethed and balked and _roared_ at the cowardly assault on what was – by all definitions – the first companion she had in life.

Garret's arm pulsed _crimson_, and with a harsh intake of breath and wide eyes, he felt the numbness _melt away_, replaced not by comforting warmth – but by a _blistering_ torrent of rage, a prickly envelopment of searing fury. This… This was not the anger, not the _outrage_ he felt at having his losses turned against him, he realised bitterly. This… This was not _his_ rage.

Finally, he felt his own control slip away.

Now he could only watch.

A cloud of red exploded around the scholar's kneeling form, accompanied by an outright _vicious_ snarl as the now smoking figure, clad in mask of crimson smoke, lunged at the demonic jester with the intent to _mutilate_. Two blades formed in twitching hands, lashing outwards and clashing against the clown's own dirks with enough force to make the ramshackle crimson blades explode into smog almost as quickly as they had formed. This did not deter the now-possessed scholar in the slightest; two more blades formed the _moment_ the first pair shattered, and when _they_ shattered in turn, yet two _more_ formed to replace them. Growling lowly, the warmaiden pressed the assault, throwing slash after errant slash towards the monstrous _thing_ that had hurt her host in such a cowardly manner. The mad clown's laughter died as it heard the spirit's venomous growl, and it disappeared in a puff of amber smoke just as a freshly-formed warhammer spun in an arc with enough force to split its face in two.

It reappeared a few feet behind its newest victim. Furia _hissed_ when she saw that _damnable_ grin had seemingly grown even wider as it regarded her host's form with an appraising look. "Oooh, two for one, I see? Is this some kind of comedy collaboration?" It asked snidely, idly juggling its dirks before hacking up a fragmented cackle. "Oh, bravo! I _did_ ask for an encore, after all! Ehe, two for one, two for one, what a hilarious punch line!" It cackled. "Please, let me show you my… _appreciation!"_

Once more the honey-hued cloud of smoke enveloped the insane clown, and its form disappeared in the puffs of smog for but a _moment_ before it mirrored Furia's own earlier action, poising its dirks and _lunging _towards her with barely contained glee. Furia met its charge with equal fervour, growling like a spurned beast as she materialised twin axes in her hands. Blood-forged iron clashed against jagged, poisoned steel as the jester and the warmaiden engaged in a furious dance of death – with neither party gaining nor giving ground as flurries of blows reverberated beneath the jungle' foliage.

Furia's rage finally pushed past its breaking point – she _powered_ through the toxins slowing and numbing her host's body, allowing the fires of her ire to propel the axes she wielded into an almost decimating cross-strike. The jester yelped as one of its dirks was sent flying skywards as the other split in two with an audible _snap!_ With a downright bloodthirsty two-voiced howl, Furia cleaved into the madman's side with one axe, a sneer forming on the mask of crimson smoke covering her host's face as she forced the clown down on one knee. The remaining axe trembled in her grasp as she felt fiery rage peak within her. "_N_o_w_…" she hissed under her breath, locking eyes with the insane clown. "N_ow_ y_o_u _di_e, s_lo_w_l_y _an_d _**p**_**a**_**in**_**fu**_**ll**_**y**… H_o_w_'s _t_ha_t f_or_ a jo_ke_?!"

The jester regarded her with gleaming eyes, that infuriating, _maddening_ grin not once leaving its mask – if anything, it only seemed to _widen_ at her ominous declaration. Then it sniffled, and snickered, its body twitching and shaking despite the axe buried into its side. To Furia's great confusion, the clown tossed its head back and _laughed_, long and loud and _insane_. She snarled at the sheer gall of the being before her, snarling as she raised her remaining axe high, primed to cleave the cowardly thing's head clean off its shoulders.

Then the laughter abruptly stopped, and the clown locked eyes with her again, and spoke.

"The joke's… on _you!_"

Furia had but a moment to ponder what the thing meant, before dozens upon _dozens_ of razor-sharp dagger tips pierced outwards underneath the jester's frame. Surprise, shock and a wave of _terror_ snuffed her anger immediately, and she had but a moment to loose a garbled, choked yelp of alarm before the puppet before her _exploded_ in a wave of shrapnel. The sudden storm of flechettes tore into her host's body, piercing organs and bones indiscriminately as the jester's mad cackles rose from the undergrowth around them. Pain was nothing new to Furia – even this unholy barrage of steel was something she felt she could resist. But… Garret's body was not her own, and with mounting dread she felt their connection wither under the torrent of grievous injuries.

With quaking arms not her own, she desperately tugged at the bolts of steel that had been embedded into Garret's form, feeling their link dwindle and slip away as the critical wounds ravaged the scholar's health. What once were furious snarls and animalistic growls became panicked gasps as she tugged and pulled blade after razor-tipped blade from their shared vessel, heedless of the further damage it was causing. Finally, with a loud wail from Furia, the red smog enveloped them again – their link had been severed, and with a gurgled outcry of indescribable agony, Garret Hillock dropped to his knees.

The wave of pain that assaulted his senses struck with the same force as one of Piltover's trains – what had once been a prickly envelopment of sizzling rage had _shattered_ as agony lanced him down to his very _cells_. It had robbed him of even his most basic motor functions – he couldn't speak, or breathe, or _move_, and it even felt as though his heart had stopped. His vision was clashing tufts of black and white, and with a pained gurgle, a mix of blood and bile pushed up from his stomach and through his throat, splattering onto the ground. The heat… The heat was almost _unbearable_; every muscle burned as though taxed to its limit and every errant breath sent the smell and taste of copper wafting across his strained senses, and before he could think to stop himself he retched again, his whole body quivering from the agony and terror.

"Tit for tat!" He distantly heard that manic voice behind him, coarse and buzzed due to the bursts of static tearing at his hearing. "Two for one! Two… for _one_…" Pain _exploded_ in Garret's shoulder as a jagged dirk parted flesh and struck bone, and with a pained, fearful gasp he was hoisted back, kneeling upright as the mad clown giggled like a lunatic. Between bursts of static and tufts of white and black blotching his vision, Garret heard Furia in the recesses of his mind – a desperate mix of remorseful and outraged – but he couldn't make out her words.

"You know," the demonic jester spoke again, twisting the dirk buried into Garret's shoulder and drawing a pained intake of breath from him. "All things considered, you were quite the act," it said gleefully, and Garret's eyes widened as he felt cold steel against his throat. A part of him tried to struggle, it _desperately_ tried as his hammered in his chest; every beat sent tremors of pain through his shoulder, as muscle tightened around the jagged blade embedded there, and any attempt to speak, to cry out for _help_ just escaped him as another strangled gasp as the venom coursing through his veins made his throat constrict painfully.

An assurance bloomed in the back of his mind, a feeling that help was coming, that someone would _save him_ somehow – but a _deafening_ explosion sounded outside the undergrowth, and that assurance dwindled, fading into nothingness, leaving only his own fear-stricken thoughts.

He gulped, wincing slightly as the dirk held across his throat broke skin.

…Was this it?

Would this be his first death?

The mere _thought_ stupefied him, and a mix of terror and deadly toxin finally stilled his struggling limbs.

"I mean, obviously, your jokes were a bit stale," the mad jester spoke behind him, and Garret felt the unperturbed shrug through the dagger embedded into his shoulder. "But the classics are just that! Classic! Quite amusing, yes," the jester spoke, before Garret _felt_ its presence – it had leaned forward, that manic grin now inches from his ear. "But like every good comedian… I think it's time you _bowed out!_"

Garret _flinched_ as he felt the cold steel drag across his throat – his eyes widened as the stinging pain flooded his neck and spread up to his face, numbing his mouth and fogging his vision; the burn, however, lasted only a few seconds before he felt sticky warmth cascading down onto his chest, and every breath he tried to take caused nothing but a spurt of thick blood to leap from the wound across his neck.

Dumbstruck, Garret barely registered the dagger being _yanked_ from his shoulder, nor did he respond when he pitched forwards and landed flat on his face in the mud. He felt a shudder rock his body when he finally stilled, and once again tried to breathe or speak, but again, it only resulted in a squirt of warm red flying from the gaping wound in his neck.

…Odd, he thought as he lay there, weathering the searing heat that squeezed his muscles and bones, and the sudden burning ache blooming in his lungs as his consciousness faded, flecks of stark gray bleeding into his vision. Odd, indeed, he mused dumbly as he watched the mad jester take a low bow before some unseen entity – maybe its Summoner? – before disappearing in a puff of smoke. He thought…

He thought he'd be taking this 'death' thing a lot worse.

Could it be the Summoners at work, perhaps, he thought as the colour slowly drained from his sight. What was once a verdant undergrowth of varying greens and blues had now turned a stark contrast of whites and grays, and all the while Garret felt his consciousness… not _slip away_, but… _wander_, somewhat.

_Why_, he wondered as blots of white started tearing the monochrome undergrowth in his vision apart. The static in his ears had dissipated, replaced by a low, hollow ringing as more and more of his vision seemed to melt into whiteness. _Why… am I not panicking…?_

Finally, with a thundering crash and a deafening whine, the whiteness swallowed up everything – and even the ringing in his ears faded away.

* * *

_Void._

That was all he could truly describe it as. Void, nothingness… maybe even afterlife if it didn't seem so absolutely _unnatural_. Looking through eyes that felt nothing _like_ looking through eyes, he beheld the white nothingness around him, and his mind reeled.

This place felt… odd.

This place felt _wrong_.

Panic overtook him as he realised he _did not feel_. No hands to clench into fists, no limbs to move and flail, no lips to twitch in agitation and terror and no lungs to breathe or gasp or _scream_. A heart that _was not there_ started beating erratically, and formless, numb eyes flitted around in anxiety as he tried to survey the void around him.

"…_Garret?"_

The void pulsed red for a moment as the voice _echoed_ around him, tinged with worry and panic and… _shame_?

'_I… I'm here,'_ he spoke – or at least he thought he spoke? – and the abyss writhed and twisted around him. '_…W-What is this… place?'_

"_I… I do not know,"_ Furia responded, her voice once again tainting the nothingness around them crimson. "_It seems like… some kind of limbo. Such a place is abhorrent…"_

The panic did not recede. '_I don't understand…' _He said, and his voice quivered in tandem with the nothingness. '_Wha… What happened?'_ His question led to a painful silence – Furia did not respond at all, but somehow… Somehow he _felt_ she was there, beside him in this nothingness. '_…Furia?'_

"_I…"_ the spirit of battle hesitated, and the void trembled with her. "_I failed you,"_ she finally spoke, her voice so soft it barely caused an echo. "_I was too late, too aggressive, too… I let my rage control me,"_ she admitted, "_just as I did when I lived, and… and you paid the price for it."_

Garret paused, and felt some of his panic dissipate slightly. '_…did I?'_ He asked mutedly, feeling the uncertainty pool in his stomach – or at least, where he was sure his stomach used to be. '_I… I cannot recall.'_

"_The clown killed you,"_ Furia informed him, no small amount of bitterness tainting her voice. "_It… It toyed with you, with _us_… Every movement, every action, they served only to cripple you, and to _enrage_ me… Such a cowardly little monster, and yet… And yet, I let it get the better of me," _she admitted. "_I should have noticed… I should have noticed how its strikes had gotten weaker, how its guard had gotten smaller, but… I…"_

That… explained much, Garret surmised. He tried to remember, honestly he did, but… the nothingness around him seemed to have settled in his mind as well. There was no recollection, no reminiscence of the previous day. It dawned on him then, that he could not remember _anything_ vivid; his name, his age, his hometown… These he recalled. But the other sensations… He could not even recall what he saw when he had woken up that morning.

He could not recall if he had woken up _at all_.

The formless, shapeless heart that had _just_ began to calm exploded into a frenzied series of thundering beats again, and the abyss around the disembodied scholar twisted and strained in tandem with his ragged, shaking breaths.

Just then, the abyss stilled – what was once roiling white started to darken and twitch and twist, and with several brittle chinks the nothingness around him cracked, white veins spanning across ashen-grey abyss. Eventually it seemed as though the scholar were surrounded by a web, an all-encompassing cocoon of jagged, sporadic strands, weaving closer and closer –

And finally, with a tumultuous crash, the abyss _shattered_.

* * *

It was not _pain_ so much as it was _exhaustion_ that assailed him the moment his feet landed on solid ground. The soles of his boots had touched down on well-kept stone with nothing more than a tap, and yet the impact had shaken every bone in his body, from the tips of his toes to the top of his skull. The numbness in and of itself was agonizing – lips shifted dumbly, forming unintelligible silent words, fingers and limbs danced and swayed like marionettes dangled from their hung-up little control bars, and although he felt little he was certain he was swaying almost drunkenly. His sight was a messy bouquet of dark and bright spots, only letting glimpses of green growth and pale stone into his sight, and his throat felt as though it had been lined with sandpaper.

And just as Garret Hillock thought this rebirth wasn't as terrible or abhorrent as he imagined it would be, the death he had suffered moments earlier caught up to him.

Bile pooled in his stomach and shot up his throat like a phosphorous cloud fired straight from a cannon, stinging at his innards as it pressed up towards his mouth, and only through a _herculean_ effort did he prevent himself from retching on the spot. The numbness subsided and left him utterly _weak_ in his limbs, and desperately his normal hand clasped itself over his mouth as he dropped to his knees, fighting the nausea that battled to push past a throat that was still stinging and constricting from the poison-tipped dagger that had carved a clean cut into it.

His vision swam and his ears rang, and only distantly could he hear the maelstrom of whipping winds surrounding him. Single blades of grass swayed between the cobblestones as the magics of the altar Garret rested on thrummed and sang as they alighted and ignited in a column of blue luminosity. Distantly he heard the muffled voices and the dulled, heavy footfalls, but he _did _feel the tiny hand that settled on his shoulder with worrying clarity, despite his other senses failing him now.

"….ere we go, just shrug it off, new guy," he heard an energetic voice speak – it was slightly distorted; as though it were speaking underwater. "Just need to get _up_," he felt a tugging on his arm accompanying this order, "and walk it off… Geh, a little help here, Tubbo?!"

"As th' lady wishes," he heard a distinctly familiar baritone intone with a deep chuckle, and before he could even comprehend what was happening, a meaty pair of hands had seized him by the shoulders and _pulled_ him up to his feet so vehemently he could've sworn the force fought the build-up of bile in his throat back down better than he ever could. Blinking dazedly, he noticed his vision was starting to clear up, and he found himself starting into two wide, lively, yet _very _concerned dark eyes – or at least, they _were_ concerned until he blinked in recognition.

"There we go!" Tristana cheered, a bright smile splitting her face as she reared back and took her hand off his forehead. He blinked. _When did she…?_ "You all good there, new guy?" The bubbly Yordle asked, perched atop her cannon, which had been planted upright on the ground before Garret. "No incoming breakdowns, or personality shifts? You'd be surprised how often that happens." Garret blinked owlishly once, before shaking his head in a daze. He didn't _feel_ any breakdowns incoming, he thought dumbly, turning to his right, and locking gazes with a pair of unnerving yellow eyes… and a row of vicious fangs turned up into a grin.

His daze evaporated before he could even _blink_.

With a gargled, strangled yelp Garret hopped back as Tahm Kench let out a downright _hearty_ laugh at his surprise. Suddenly everything came _rushing_ back into his mind – the Deathsinger, the jester, the horrid yet _terrifying_ comedy lingo, the…

"…_you don't belong here, little brother…"_

He shuddered. He shuddered _violently_ as the memory came to him, unbidden – the once regal attire of a Demacian Ranger, sundered and blackened by a death _years_ past. Blue and gold had turned murky and blotched, and the once expertly tailored apparel had frayed and tattered over the years. But that _voice_… That voice shook him to his core. A voice he had not heard in years, belonging to a loved one that had left one day and never came back.

Garret expected many horrors on the Fields of Justice, after meeting Thresh…

…but seeing the ghost of his long-dead brother, Aaron, was not one of them.

And then…

Then a ghostly feeling of envenomed steel caressed his throat.

He very nearly dropped to his knees again right there.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there, new guy!" Tristana had gone from cheerful to concerned in a blink, hopping off her cannon and closing the distance between them. "Just relax, okay? The first death's always the worst – just stay calm, and breathe, alright?" She instructed him, a calm, comforting smile on her face.

"First… what?" Garret asked, his voice a low whine as he clutched his throat. The Yordle woman's mere words had set off a slew of alarm bells in his mind. _First death_, she said.

He had _died_.

That monstrous clown had slit his throat, and had done so with nothing but a twisted grin and audible _glee_. Even now that masked face haunted his thoughts – the slanted white eyes and the manic smile, it seemed as though someone had reached into a nightmare and plucked that clown straight from its dark clutches. He shivered again, clutching at his throat with his normal hand. There was no scar, no dried blood, not even a hint to indicate his jugular had been gouged out – but the ghostly sting remained.

"We tried to get to you when we saw that clown attacking," Tristana spoke measuredly, still keeping a concerned eye on him as she propped her hands on her hips. "Buuuuut… Kog'Maw didn't make it easy. Kept dropping spitbombs in our way."

"…Kog'Maw?" Garret asked, a perplexed expression on his face as he rested his hands on his knees, propping himself up as he bent forward. The exhaustion was slowly fading, but that meant nothing before the hollow, icy feeling that had settled in his stomach.

"That grubby little entrée with the gum-cannon in its muzzle," Tahm Kench helpfully supplied, running his tongue across his fangs as he tugged at the lapels of his double-coat. "Morsel's about as fragile as a tissue, but the little thing packs a wallop to put a Bilgewater cannon to shame."

"Boomer dealt with him, though," Tristana said with a confident smirk as she patted the hand-cannon beside her with a gentle touch. "Then Graggy and Tubbo here ran the tree man and the dead man off. Oh! We even got the clown for you!" She suddenly exclaimed with a wide smile.

Garret spared her a questioning look, rising to stand upright again, and was just about to voice his question when a tumultuous rumbling shook their hearing. Both the scholar and the Yordle turned to face their fishy ally, just in time to see the smirk fall from his face as the rumbling sound intensified, bleeding out from between his clenched teeth. "Uh… S'cuse me a moment, if you will?" He asked, as cordially as a fish-monster with a seemingly aching belly could. Tahm turned away from them, pitched forward, and with an absolutely _sickening_ belch, he retched a pungent clump of sickly-green spittle and various bits of undigested food onto the steps of the altar.

Garret regarded the act – and the result – with thinly veiled discomfort and distaste, if the way his expression was screwing up was any indication. As if on cue, the sight of the fish-person's projectile vomit merely caused his own stomach to clench and churn uncomfortably. "Ew," Tristana voiced her opinion, looking at the pooling pile of spittle with an expression Garret could only describe as _repulsed_. Even her ears, normally perky and upright, had drooped and folded backwards slightly. "That's… Ew. That's _disgusting_, Tubbo." Garret found himself agreeing – aware as he was that retching was a natural action, it was still an unsavoury action; the many times he'd actually partaken in it while on the run merely compounded that opinion. It was only then that Garret noticed just _what_ Tahm Kench had regurgitated:

A black and red jester's hat - and the bells hanging from the pointy ears of the cap had already been half-eroded by stomach acid.

Despite himself, Garret shivered as he regarded the tattered little hat. No matter how gruesome a fate he had met at the jester's hands… he was quite certain being devoured alive was infinitely worse. And although he told himself it was not necessary, although he told himself that a being that could kill with such _manic_ glee deserved to be treated as it treated others… a part of him still felt sorry for that clown.

With a grunt, Tahm straightened his two-coat's lapels again and turned to regard the scholar and the Yordle with an intrigued eye. When those yellow orbs fell on the disgruntled expression on Tristana's face, the fish-monster's wide maw twitched into an absolutely _devious_ smirk, and with a lightning quick _lash_ of tongue, the discarded jester's cap was snatched back into his gullet almost as quickly as it had been spat up.

If Tahm had been trying to get a rise out of the Yordle woman, Garret noticed, he had failed – while Tristana _did_ shiver once in abject disgust, she managed to keep her features admirably cheerful. "Can we just… Ugh. You ready to go again, new guy? Garret, right?" She asked him with an inquisitive light in those big eyes of hers. "Or do you need a few minutes?"

For a moment, Garret pondered what she meant, before realising he had _completely_ forgotten that the match had not ended yet. In fact he was quite certain it had only just begun. He shifted his weight from one leg to another, then back again, testing if the limbs would hold under the strain of walking. When neither threatened to collapse or give in, he took a deep breath, and flinched – the fresh air clashed against the taste of bile that lined his throat, but apart from that, his nausea was not threatening to return anytime soon. "I… I think the worst is past," he nodded to Tristana, mustering a small smile when the Yordle woman shot him an absolutely dazzling one before hoisting her hand-cannon onto her shoulder.

"Alright!" She cheered, trying to give him one of those motivational punches on the shoulder. Her diminutive height, sadly, meant her fist bounced harmlessly off his thigh, and despite his most valiant attempts to stop it, the gesture managed to draw a muted chuckle from him. It was relatively minor, but her cheerful demeanour managed to dispel some of his anxiety. That in itself was something Garret was thankful for. "Graggy managed to take out the tree man while you were out," Tristana helpfully supplied as she bounded down the steps. Garret followed with a skew smile, and he could _hear_ Tahm Kench's lumbering footsteps as the fish-thing followed suit. "And right now he's giving chase, trying to keg-beat that dead guy to…" She trailed off, her face screwing up into confusion. "More death? I dunno," she shook her head. "I do know Kog'Maw and the clown are gonna be back soon, so I'm really not up for leaving Grag to fight against three people. Way I see it, Tubbo and I have got a way to pincer them just like we did last time, but… There's a complication."

Garret adopted a quizzical expression upon hearing the hint of concern bleed into the normally cheerful Yordle's voice, but before he could make any inquiries he _lurched_ in place; something _tugged_ at his stomach, and there was a weight in the back of his mind – a hint of an instinct he knew all too well: danger. As if acting on a hunch he directed his confused gaze into the trees to the east, squinting as though looking for something, _anything_ to justify this sudden feeling of hostility. Then he finally recognised the suspicion in full.

He'd experienced a similar thrill of emotion during those colds nights he prowled Bilgewater's alleys, when a scream would pierce the air before being silenced with a wet gurgle and a song of steel.

Someone in that direction was in danger.

Almost as soon as the niggling suspicion, the inexplicable _instinct_ had assailed him, it had dissipated, and almost immediately Garret found worry blooming in the back of his mind, and a ball of ice formed in the pit of his stomach. "What… What was that?" He asked, turning to face Tristana. The Yordle woman blinked owlishly, before uttering a bashful chuckle as her free hand scratched the back of one of her ears.

"The setback I mentioned!" she said with an awkward grin. "That was our fifth. She's… kinda pinned down." She squinted in the direction that the subliminal cry for help had come from, and her ears drooped again. "Doesn't help the odds are against her. She's kicked it twice already. We'll need to reinforce that front too – she's too stubborn to retreat… and _I'm _too stubborn to let an ally fend for herself," the Yordle said with a wry smirk.

"Bah! Girl's got her eyes on a one-way tunnel to ruination," Tahm mused as he waddled to a stop beside the two, yellow eyes gleaming dangerously in the Rift's sunlight. "_Stubborn_ is an understatement. You can lead the mule to water, but you cannot force it to drink… That girl's her own worst enemy. A rank dish, so to speak."

"You two are making this 'she' sound… quite frustrating," Garret mused, a concerned expression on his face. "Is she really so bad?"

"Wha?" Tristana blinked once, realisation sinking in, before shaking her head. Her ears perked up again, Garret noticed, and that smile returned – even if it was a bit more subdued this time. "Oh, no, no, no, she's actually, you know… Well, okay, she's not always in the best state of mind," Tristana admitted with an awkward shrug, "but once she gets her head set on doing something, well… She was a prodigy back in Noxus. Climbed through the ranks faster than most of us Bandle Gunners get out of boot camp – and it _shows_."

Finally that subtle hint of looming danger dissipated entirely, replaced by a pooling feeling of concern and alertness in Garret's stomach. The hairs that had risen on the back of his neck slowly fell again, his anxiety replaced with a sense of worry he couldn't attribute to himself _or_ his spiritual companion. He wondered for a while, trying to find the correct way to phrase his questions, when Tahm suddenly belched out a fit of hideous laughter beside them, three rows of fangs gleaming in the flailing gums of his maw. "W-What's going on?" Garret asked warily, taking a step away from manically laughing monster, and saw Tristana doing the same – the Yordle had even raised a hand to shield her face from flying spittle.

"You're not really clued up to the Summoner signals yet, are you?" Tristana asked with a slight droop in her ears as she hastily rubbed her palm against her pants with a distasteful expression. "That little lurch in your stomach you're feeling? That's an alert. A notification of sorts, imagine it like some kind of spiritual signal flare. _That_ nasty little churn should tell us that Riven's retreating, and, well… As we said, she's stubborn," Tristana said with a perplexed expression. "She barely ever retreats."

"Next thing y'know, bolts of fire are gon' start raining down from a crimson sky," Tahm Kench chuckled as he gazed off into the distance, likely in the direction this Riven woman was retreating from, "and arcing walls of water are gon' come and drown us all. Mayhap I was wrong about her… Even the most unappealing dish can be made bearable with the right spices…"

"There's a chance she's hurt…" Tristana mused, before palming her face with a sigh. "Ugh. What am I saying, she's fighting that giant lizard, of _course _she's hurt… And that old scalebutt doesn't give up on his victims," she mused, a calculating gleam in those dark eyes of hers. "Two fronts to reinforce with superior enemies on both ends…"

"I…" Garret spoke up, a calculating edge to his voice. "I may be able to assist. Tristana, when you spoke of aiding Gragas, and… what was it, 'pincering' the enemies, how were you intending to do so? The same way you intervened last time?"

Tristana cast an inquisitive glance at Tahm's belly, her eyes shining in the midday sun, before she nodded. "Yeah. Not the smoothest ride, but it goes the distance so to say, and it's nice and under the radar for the most part. Like a… Sorta like a slimy APC. Why?"

"Are both our allies within your range?" Garret asked, idly scratching at the stubble that had built up around his chin. "Both Gragas and… Riven, you called her?" Upon receiving an affirmative nod from the Yordle gunner, who herself had a curious gleam in her eyes now, Garret continued. "I… Well, this deadened arm has its uses. I can scale trees rather easily, and I can cover ground using the jungle's canopy quite quickly, I've learned." He trailed off, taking a deep breath. "Can't believe I am about to suggest this, but… why don't I use the treetops to reach our closest ally while you and Tahm find to the other?"

Tristana blinked, shifting her hand-cannon from one shoulder to the other as she pondered the suggestion. "You know… That's not a half-bad strat you got there Garret. You sure you're up for it?"

"No," Garret answered honestly, mustering a crooked grin as he shrugged. The mere suggestion had made that ball of ice in the pit of his stomach expand. "Honestly I do not. So you should give the order before I regain all my faculties, Captain," he said, earning a lighthearted chuckle from the Yordle.

"That's _Major_, buddy," she corrected him, cheekily sticking her tongue out. "Alright, so that's all settled then," she affirmed, pivoting on her heel and strolling towards the middle-most exit, Garret and Tahm Kench following suit a foot or two behind her. Major indeed, he thought – she certainly knew how to take charge. "Riven's closest to us, Garret," the Yordle informed him. "She's east of here, 'bout… I dunno, bit less than twenty minutes, depending on how quickly you move across the canopy." A quick inward pondering revealed that Tristana's words coincided with a hunch that had been festering in his gut – something he only noticed now, as the exhaustion, numbness and fear started to bleed away.

Eventually they came to a halt outside the pseudo-gateway. The vast expanses of Summoner's Rift were spread out before them like a verdant canvas bathed in rays of golden light. Lush canopies of jungle bled into breath-taking valleys and fjords in the distance, a distant display of just how _massive_ this battleground truly was. "This is where we split up," Tristana said with a nod. "Graggy's to the west, and he's still only got the dead man in his sights. Once we get there I'm betting the tree man and the worm will show up – heh, maybe even the clown too." She turned to face Garret. "That should give you enough of a window to get to Riven," she said with a smile, "and either help her kill old scalebutt or help her hobble away from danger – whichever's less comprising towards our main objective."

Garret nodded, already scanning the undergrowth to his left in a bid to find the quickest way to the highest tree, all the while keeping his hands clasped behind his back in a bid to keep the trembling at bay. His earlier death still gnawed at him, and even now he felt the distinctly chilly kiss of jagged steel against his throat. His current course of action added to his anxiety – a part of him wanted to _strangle himself_ for suggesting that he go in the direction of the enemy alone, especially considering he was now heading in the direction of some kind of monster that could kill a Noxian prodigy twice, and nearly killed her a third time mere minutes ago.

But with a strained gulp, he fought that tiny part of him down – quashed it like he had so many times in the past. This was what he had signed up for, after all. He had known, the moment he suggested this to Furia, that it would not be pleasant or comfortable in the least. Maybe later he would go drown in grog until he managed to convince himself his current course of action _hadn't been_ completely foolish, and let the hangover kill those thoughts while they were dormant the next morning. But now?

Now he had allies that needed aid.

And he would not let his cowardice taint his response to that call.

"Shall we be going, Madame?" Tahm Kench asked cordially, despite the devious grin on his face showing he was anything but. Again, the stretch of his alien lips revealed too many teeth to be even remotely natural, and those eyes held an _unnerving_ glint to them. "It'd hardly be sporting to miss the main course, after all…"

Tristana's ears twitched once, before a conflicted grin bloomed on her face, and only then did Garret remember _how_ she had arrived to aid Gragas in their earlier encounter. He scowled slightly when he realised Tahm Kench's method of transport was… less than appealing. Tristana herself didn't seem to have a problem with it, though – if anything the prospect of some kind of abdominal ferry seemed to excite her. "Yeah, yeah, just give me a moment," the Yordle responded, turning on her heel as she held her cannon close. "Just… Be careful, okay, new guy?" Tristana instructed Garret, a rare mask of solemn seriousness on her face. "Old scalebutt's really dangerous, and Riven… Well, it's as I said earlier. Sometimes her state of mind is… unhealthy. It's a miracle her Summoner managed to convince her to retreat at all."

Despite the fact that he considered himself a rather eloquent fellow at times, Garret found he didn't rightly know how to respond to that. '_Either help her kill old scalebutt or help her hobble away from danger_,' the Yordle gunner's earlier words returned to him. He found himself frowning at the thought. Could this 'scalebutt' truly be so dangerous that even two combatants would need to flee from it?

Unbidden, he recalled his last 'adventure' on the Fields of Justice – and the rampaging alabaster behemoth whose strikes uprooted trees and upturned stone and boulder alike. Sion, the Undead Juggernaut – the monster who needed to be assaulted by _three_ sources before he finally died.

And even _then_, he still kept going.

Yes, Garret concluded with a grimace, yes, this 'scalebutt' truly _could_ be that dangerous.

"I understand," he said solemnly, nodding once at the diminutive Major before him and offering her as close to a sincere smile as he could muster. "I will be careful."

Tristana merely offered him one of her winning smiles before squaring her shoulders and pulling her goggles down over her eyes. "Alright, Tubbo – let's get going."

Despite his valiant efforts _not_ to, Garret found himself looking away with a visible shudder as the fish-monster's whip-like tongue lashed out. He screwed his eyes shut just as the slimy appendage wrapped around the Yordle with a sickening _smack_, and by the time Tristana's jovial 'Whoop!' had reached his ears he was already darting into the undergrowth. A part of him felt bad at the cowardly act of fleeing even from an ally – but that monster, no matter how hearty and courteous he may have acted, had an unnerving aura of darkness around him, and Garret preferred not witness the thing with so many teeth consume one of his other allies, no matter how 'harmless' the Institute's magics rendered the act. There was just… something abhorrent about the action, something unnatural, as though it were more than mere 'feeding'.

Within moments he'd found another tree to scale, and was hopping from branch to branch with practiced ease. It took a lot of calculation – and no small amount of guesswork – to determine which of the wooden limbs were safe to rest his weight on. It was still a painfully slow process – but it was faster than hacking his way through the vast undergrowth. Plus, at the very least, he had a better field of vision from up in the trees.

A broken sword and a mop of white hair, he recalled – the only details of his fifth ally, this 'Riven' woman, that he'd been able to witness before she had disappeared through the far gate.

He came to a halt on a twisted knot of branches, and squatted down, emerald eyes seeking a foothold farther out, or further down in the vast green canopy surrounding him. His human arm was draped across a bent knee as he searched, while his mutated black hand wrapped its digits around a sturdy branch, anchoring him that much more in the bud of twisting vines and jagged brown limbs. Unbidden his eyes came to rest on his blackened hand, on the thumb and three fingers, one of which seemed far too thick at its base – and suddenly, Garret realised something:

Not _once_ since his 'rebirth' had Furia spoken to him.

This realisation worried him more than the looming conflict ever could.

* * *

Had she ever paid mind to the concept of irony, she would have raged at the injustice; it was the height of unfairness that the greatest battle she had ever fought took place in death.

It was a tumultuous struggle, a thrashing, growling resistance against her own nature. She seethed and bristled as she fought against the fires of rage swelling within her spirit; it was a blazing sensation the likes of which she hadn't felt in a long, _long_ time. It seemed to spread through every single ghost of a nerve it touched, roiling and churning within her so fiercely it made her grit her non-existent teeth in frustration and desperation. She knew of the underlying feeling that stoked the flames of rage within her; at one stage of her life she had known no other emotion, and now it was back, to haunt her, to _taunt_ her.

_Worthless_.

The mere _thought_ drew a venomous hiss from her, an acerbic sound that echoed across the crimson void surrounding her. The word stung like a barbed spear; it pierced through her bloodlust, through her excitement and elation, and struck home right in her heart before _twisting_, crippling her with a wave of self-loathing she had fought so hard to suppress in life. It was a maelstrom of emotion, one negative _thing_ feeding off the other, trying to cripple her into inaction. In life she would take to the battlefields, to the wilds, _anywhere_ where the rush and the thrill of battle could expunge such horrendous assailment on her soul. She would lose herself to catharsis, to rage, to frenzy and manic excitement as she flung herself into combat…

…but now, she could not; for she was not alone.

'…_Furia?'_

She flinched as the voice invaded the red void around her, every syllable jerking at her already fractured emotional state. She hissed, in displeasure, in discomfort, in _despondency_ as she heard that voice; it carried that same calm tone it always carried when it spoke to her, and she fought _viciously_ to prevent a sudden burst of anger from fuelling the fires of her self-loathing, of her uncharacteristic rage. But that niggling feeling wouldn't disperse; it lurked beneath the fear, the loathing, the uncertainty and the spite.

_Failure_.

For the first time, in both life and death, someone had made an effort to try and understand her, to compromise with her instead of viewing her as some maddened animal to be avoided. At the cost of _great_ personal discomfort this person had not only accepted her nature, but actively tried to _help her_, to grant her the one thing she wished for above all else, after _so long_ spent in the crimson nothingness.

…and she had cost him his life.

Her own foolishness, her own outrage had led to him _dying_ at the hands of a cowardly little jester.

And it had been _real_. There was no magic that pulled him into limbo when he was clutching at the last straws of his life. There was no wave of celestial magic, no instantaneous healing, and no teleportation to safety. It was legitimate _death_. She had felt her host's heart stop, felt his lungs expel their last breath, felt his mind _shut down_ – just as her own had, so long ago.

And it was _every bit_ as terrifying as it had been, then. Were it not for this Rift's magics… They would both have been dead – all because she flew into a rage.

Fear was something she seldom felt – but in that moment, it had been her most prevalent emotion.

'…_Furia? Are you-'_

"_What?!"_ She snapped suddenly, the red of her own vision bleeding into the crimson smoke around her as her spirit jerked and tensed after a _second_ of ill control, before she regained herself. She flinched at how venomous she had sounded then, how _livid_ she had sounded. The ghost of a jaw twitched as she tried to form an apology. That concept, however, was alien to her – and words had never been her forte.

'_You seemed… distant. Distressed, even. I… I was worried about you.'_

…and nevertheless, her host – that cowardly, foolish, yet well-intentioned man – weathered her hostility and volatility like a _bulwark_, instead offering her kindnesses she felt she did _not_ deserve at that moment. "_I… I am…_" Still, she struggled. 'Sorry'. A word she had _never_ said in life, had now come to taunt her, to wring her soul dry, and going by the ghost of a _bitter_ taste lingering in a phantom mouth, it was _succeeding_. Again, she tried, and again her throat caught before she could truly form the words to express her regret, and her anguish was all the worse for it. "_I failed you…"_ She admitted bitterly.

'…_Pardon? What are…'_ Her host, bless him, seemed merely confused at her words, and the confusion only served to stoke the fires of her rage. But she would not allow that – she had snapped at him once already. With a downright _animalistic _growl, she quashed that wave of anger before it could take root. '_Furia, what do you mean?'_

She sighed before the question was even fully vocalized. _Why_? Why did such pure concern and confusion cause this, this _damnable_ sting in her being to ache that much more? Why did his words gut her harder than any blade had done in life?

"_You… You joined this Institute, for my sake…"_ She started speaking, measuredly, mutedly, struggling to put her feelings into words every step of the way. "_You could have left this place. You… You could have become a scholar, or, or a teacher or some other despic-"_ With a _violent_ hiss she caught herself, before she could utter that condemning phrase, and once more she tasted acid in her phantom mouth. For Garret, despite his pacifism, did not condemn her nature – she _would not_ fail to repay that kindness. "_You could have escaped,"_ she said, her tone clipped, strained. "_You could have made a life away from all the violence… And yet… Yet, you chose this, for…"_ She swallowed, a phantom action in this red nothingness, as nerves constricted a throat that was no longer there. "_For my sake, you bear this burden, Garret… And I…"_

_I let you die,_ the words rang in her mind, reverberating off every thought and serving only to blow _gusts_ into the fires of her rage, and further add to the tumultuous blizzard of sorrow raging within. _I let you die. I lost control. I dropped my guard. I, I, __**I**__._

"…_I failed you,"_ she said finally. "_You… You trusted me, and I… I let you-"_

'_Furia, __**no**_,' Garret's voice interrupted her, and despite herself, she flinched – _flinched!_ – at the sudden urgent tone his voice had taken on. It was such a baffling turn of events that a portion of her anger had outright evaporated at the interruption. Already, that unfamiliar uncertainty was pulling at the edges of her mind – why had he interrupted her?

A sigh echoed around her, and distantly she noticed through their connection that Garret had stopped moving, coming to a stop on a rather sturdy branch. '_You __**cannot **__blame yourself for this, Furia,'_ he spoke measuredly – and once more she found herself dumbfounded. '_It… It was not the most pleasant way to… to perish. But… I need you to stray away from those thoughts, Furia. What happened to us… Was no fault of yours.'_

"_But it __**was**__!"_ She had finally regained her voice. "_If I had been focused I could have noticed a pattern, or a change in the clown's behaviour, I could have –"_

'_And if __**I**__ had been focused,'_ Garret interrupted her, his tone oddly… calm? Warm? Comforting…? '_Then the clown would not have caught us flat-footed in the first place, Furia. Instead I let my hesitation and fear of the Deathsinger stun me into inaction. I had waited for the opportunity to __**re**__act, instead of taking action, and it cost us dearly. Surely if you think you are to blame,'_ he said, a hint of wryness creeping into his tone, '_then the fault lies equally heavy on my shoulders, no?'_

"_I…"_ Her tongue knotted as she tried to argue, her frustrations mounting in tandem with her confusion. This stupid man… "_You… If I had been capable of doing as we agreed, Garret… If only I could have taken control the _moment_ you were ambushed, then… Then you would not have met such a grisly end. Instead… Instead…"_

'_That is hardly a one-way action, Furia.'_ That stupid, _infuriating_ man's voice was the very sound of calm and concerned, and, and… Why did it have such an effect on her? Why couldn't he be _angry_, like every other human would have been?! If he had gotten angry _she_ could have gotten angry in turn and be _rid_ of these _damnable conflicting emotions _and… and… '_I wasn't exactly trying on my end either, in case you've forgotten. Too busy being numbed by poison and fear.'_

"_That doesn't…"_ For a moment she considered telling him that didn't matter. For a moment, she considered arguing further – only to realize she couldn't. Her outrage snuffed, only the cold, bitter grasp of sorrow and regret lingered, occasionally assisted by the slightest prod of fear. "_That does not lessen the sting, host," _she murmured bitterly. "_I saw you die, Garret. I __**felt**__ you die, and… it mirrored my own. So uncannily that…"_ Phantom teeth ground against each other, trying desperately to quash the acidic taste of weakness lingering there. "…_It scared me, Garret. More than I ever thought it could."_

For a moment, only silence reigned in that crimson nothingness around her. Finally, she heard a cough, and a deep breath. '_…For what little it is worth, Furia, I am sorry.'_ She blinked, quite certain that if she still had a jaw it would have dropped open by now. '_I cannot imagine what it must have been like to relive death again. I only now realize how cruel it is.'_ Once again, that stupid, stupid, kind-hearted, caring man had proved her wrong. Once again, he had placed her own needs and wellbeing before his own… and for some reason that utterly _confused_ her, the action made just a bit of her anguish fade away.

Why… Why was this happening?

How could he still be so… _kind_?

'_I knew this was not going to be an easy path,'_ Garret's voice interrupted her again, '_before I even embarked on it, Furia. Our souls are vastly different, I'd wager. Finding equilibrium… is going to be difficult. Easily one of the most difficult tasks I've ever undertaken… but that won't dissuade me.'_ The resolve in his voice was _palpable_; it made the crimson smog around her tremble and quiver and convulse. '_In a way, I know what it's like… to be denied your own nature. You told me you sought freedom. I… I can relate to that. Now that I've obtained a semblance of mine… It is only right I help you obtain the same, no?'_

Again, she felt a grimace flash across her phantom lips, as the emotions within her stirred and roiled. Once more he had chosen to look past the fact that her actions had led to his _death_, and chose to focus on _her_ and it served only to frustrate and vex and fluster and _confuse _her so greatly she had trouble forming coherent sentences. When he had first contacted her, when he had told he would suffer all these burdens, just so she could experience a semblance of freedom… She had no idea how far his kindness would extend. She believed she had come to terms with her host's gentle and compassionate nature. But now… Only now she realized she had barely touched upon the _surface_ of his kindness. And while this realization caused her distress…

…it caused her so small amount of peace as well.

Peace… What an alien feeling.

'_Fret not, Furia,'_ Garret's voice echoed across the crimson nothingness again. '_We'll find a way to progress, to make this work. Regardless of how long it takes. It's going to be a long road, filled with many obstacles… But we'll overcome them. Together. I promise you."_

'_Promise'._ That word had always meant so little to her in life. She had seen – and experienced – so many oaths broken that she had not even been bothered to care, later in her life. In the maddened storms of her own frenzy, she had disregarded words entirely. Yet… Something about Garret's tone made a small part of her believe that _this_ oath was not one taken lightly. Again, she scowled, ghost brows creasing as she pondered the words spoken, but… to her growing confusion, her outrage, her frustration and her despair had been assuaged just a _bit_ more.

Slowly but surely, most of the raging emotions within died down to a tumultuous bubble, instead of the raging inferno it had been.

Together, he had said…

Why did that word calm her so?

* * *

Over the few weeks he had known the lady of war now residing in his arm, Garret had quickly learned how to distinguish her emotions from his own. At first it was an action born of trepidation; a desire to be sure what he was feeling at any given moment was _his_, and not Furia's. But over time he had come to learn a valuable lesson by taking note of the emotions not his own. It allowed him a hollow degree of insight into his tenant's emotional state, something to ponder while he tried to completely understand and comprehend the warmaiden.

Was it any surprise then, that the torrent of anguish and frustration that suddenly bloomed within their collective being forced him to a halt?

From the perch he had rested on, he lowered his hand from his chest and exhaled shakily. Furia had not answered, had barely even spoken after he uttered that promise. But the way the despair and confusion were slowly leaking from his spirit was as good an indicator as any that he had gotten through to her. He frowned, in concern more than frustration. He had been correct when he surmised there was much, _much_ more depth to Furia's being – depth she herself had yet to discover, even in death.

With a grimace, he rose to his feet again, maintaining his balance on the precariously swaying branch he had settled on. While he had failed to get a reaction from her, at the very least his words had managed to make the tumultuous maelstrom of emotion she was currently feeling subside – that was, in his own humble opinion, as close to a victory as he would achieve at that time. While her emotional state bothered him greatly, he realized that currently, words would aid her little. She needed to _leave_ that state, however temporarily, and focus on something else.

With a shaky, yet resolute nod – more to himself than to anyone else – Garret resumed his trek across the canopy, nimbly hopping and swinging from branch to branch, just as he had done so many times before. There was a nagging sensation in the back of his head, one that told him he was headed right towards that 'Riven' woman – and whatever was pursuing her.

Furia, at that point, needed a distraction.

And Garret knew _exactly_ where he could find one.

* * *

When that prickly sensation lingering in the deepest recesses of his mind had led to him understanding an ally was directly below him, Garret started his descent. What would normally have been a lengthy process had been rendered _laughably_ mundane by the twisted black limb that had replaced his right arm – in addition to being completely numb to feeling it was also, apparently, stronger than a usual limb; enough so that the fingers could _easily_ dig into bark and wood alike and find at least a semblance of grip.

Only now did he notice how high up he had been – after leaping from one height to a lower footing, without as much as a yelp, he proudly noticed, the sound of rushing water met his ears, and that unmistakeable scent of fresh riverside nature assaulted his nose, dispelling the acridly sweet stench of tree sap that had plagued him during his trek. The rushing sounds of water became ever louder, and Garret could hear it whispering as it scraped over protruding roots and crawled over smooth, wet stone. Even now, he could see the glimmers dancing across clear water below him. It pierced through the dense canopy and flickered in his sight, and the closer he got to it the more pronounced the wave of cool air that brushed against his face became.

He was nearing the ground now. The amount of jutting branches that looked stable or strong enough to support his weight were rapidly dwindling. He even had to stop once, eagerly scanning the twisting, jagged branches around him for some semblance of stability. _There_, he noticed – a branch far too thin for him to actually _stand_ on, but seemingly strong enough to support his weight, and close enough to the ground for him to drop down without much in terms of ailment. With a determined grunt, he leaned back, leapt forward and extended his twisted arm. The four blackened fingers wrapped around the bark –

And he promptly yelped as the branch gave way with a loud _snap_.

Gravity took hold of him with what appeared to be _manic glee_, if the way the canopy blurred past him was any indication. Already, knowledge from aeons past sifted into his mind, highlighting ways to twist his body and alter his descent so that he could at least land on his –

His back _slammed_ down on wet ground with a sickening _squelch _and a loud _splash_, as the rivulets of water flying into the air around him effectively masked the dry, strained heave he loosed as the wind got knocked clean out of him. His vision swam as the shallow river water he'd landed in finally calmed, and half-engulfed, half-swirled around him as he lay there unmoving. That, he thought, could have gone _infinitely_ better. He grimaced at the poisonous cocktail of emotions he was experiencing. Shame, frustration, regret, exasperation…

Wait… Exasperation? That was odd. Was that Furia's emotion? He… wouldn't have been surprised if it were, to be honest.

Shaking the spots from his vision, he looked up – or at least, his perception of up – and despite the image seeming fairly upside down, he locked gazes with a pair of red eyes. They seemed inquisitive and showed no small amount of confusion, but they danced in the way only the eyes of someone _highly_ alert and suspicious could. "…Not the best of first impressions, I will admit," Garret spoke measuredly, carefully picking his word so the alertness in those red eyes didn't increase. "Good morning. You are Riven, I take it?" He asked. Finally the eyes lost some of their sharpness, muted relief replacing the suspicion, and Garret heard footsteps splashing in the shallow water as his new acquaintance backed up a bit.

Taking that as confirmation that hostilities were (hopefully) over before they even began, Garret rolled over, grumbling under his breath as the shallow water proceeded to drench him completely, before rising to his feet. The mop of white hair was almost immediately familiar, framing a hardened face and done up into a spiky ponytail that pointed every which-way. Garret quickly took in the rest of the person before him; bronze skin, an outfit consisting of tattered travelling rags and bits and pieces of armour – Noxian armour, he noted, from the Noxian-Ionian conflict all those years ago. A smidgeon of white paint had been hastily drawn across her left cheek – but even that could not hide the tiny, yet uneven burn beneath it. Garret shuddered slightly when he saw that, and to his great worry he saw another burn stretching across the outside of her right thigh.

What worried him most, however, was her right arm – the gauntlet surrounding the hand had been completely _crushed_ by… something, and the varying shades of purple and blue the limb was taking quickly clued the scholar in that the woman's arm was broken quite badly.

Red eyes continued to regard him warily, before twitching ever so slightly as a hiss of pain poured from Riven's throat. Gingerly, her bandaged left hand touched at the varying bruises decorating her broken limb, before she shook her head and trudged towards a moderately sized boulder, where she sat down. "Will…" Garret chanced speaking, observing Riven with a critical eye. She seemed quite hindered by that broken limb. "Will you be alright?" He asked honestly.

For a moment she looked at him again, seeming outright fatigued. He could tell she was gritting her teeth, despite keeping her lips set into that stern, straight line. "…Yes. Just…" She spoke, then trailed off, in a surprisingly soft voice, one Garret would not associate with a veteran soldier at first. "…Just keep watch," she finally instructed, grimacing as she set her gauntleted hand across her lap, and seized its rim with her free hand. "If he catches us off guard… we're both dead."

The 'he' in question, Garret thought, was likely the mind-numbingly powerful being that could make a Noxian prodigy call for a retreat. If this beast were anything like Sion, he'd prefer to keep well away from it. So he took up a vigil of sorts on the riverbank while Riven tended to her wounds, alternating his gaze between the wounded soldier and the direction she had likely been coming from. Riven, he noticed, was gingerly tugging at her gauntlet, trying to pry the crushed piece of armour from her arm, letting out small hisses of pain every now and then.

His face fell a bit, as he watched her fight against the pain that was obviously assailing her. It was a valiant battle on her end – but her voice, and her body, gave away what her face did not. He saw her shoulders quiver under the rags she wore, saw the muscles in her neck tense from how hard she was gnashing her teeth, and even her toes were digging into the leather of the sandals she wore. Garret always thought soldiers like her were impermeable; sights like these just reinforced how wrong he was.

A sudden _crack_ echoed over the sound of rushing water, accompanied by a short-lived, pained growl from Riven before she slammed her jaw shut. Her features wavered for but a _moment_ before a fire ignited in her eyes, and her face set itself into that same steely expression. Garret grimaced as she continued to tug at the gauntlet – that crack had sounded anything _but_ healthy. "…Are you… Do you need help?" He offered lamely.

"…_I'm fine."_ Garret winced – despite how low and soft Riven's voice was, that had sounded outright vicious. His thoughts were halted when, with another loud _crack_ and another wince, the gauntlet adorning Riven's right forearm finally fell to the wet ground, revealing…

Garret's face fell when he saw what had been hiding beneath that gauntlet. Whereas Riven's upper arm was swollen and matted with blotches of purple and blue, her forearm had barely a trace of bronze skin; it looked like one giant welt and _gods above_, it was even going sickle-shaped. While he couldn't exactly see any bone piercing the skin – _thank goodness_ – he was quite certain those were some _severe_ fractures…

…and yet, despite the grimace adorning her face, and the rivulets of sweat dotting her cheeks and forehead, Riven didn't seem perturbed in the _least_. She regarded the mangled, swollen limb with a downright _bored_ expression, and allowed herself a single, muted sigh before her good hand gingerly started pressing and poking at her broken arm, setting the bones back into place with several loud _clicks_ and _snaps_ that, frankly, made Garret shudder.

He chose to look away at this moment, as Riven went about resetting the bones in her arm. Instead he kept his gaze levelled in the direction he was quite sure his ally's battles had taken place, if the footprints in the mud and the trampled undergrowth he noticed were any indication. He had half expected a ruckus to be sounding in the distance – maybe the chaos of splintering jungle, or a loud metallic report like the one that had heralded Sion's appearance. Instead… There was nothing. There weren't even any critters hopping about. _That_ served to unnerve him more than any brash, boastful entrance announcement ever could.

A blade materialized in his hand, then – wickedly curved and simmering. It seemed as though Furia caught on to his unease.

He scanned the undergrowth for a moment longer, and when he saw no threat looming in the distance, he glanced back at Riven. She had finished resetting the bones in her arm, and had paused halfway through ripping the bandages covering her left arm off with her teeth when she had apparently paused to regard his blade curiously. "I'd rather not be caught flat-footed again," he clarified to her, with an awkward shrug. "Once is quite enough."

She continued to regard the weapon in his hand – a scimitar, Furia's memories helpfully supplied – a moment longer, before her shoulders slumped just a _fraction_, and she proceeded with her task. With a quick jerk, she tore the knot keeping the bandages wrapped around her arm, and deftly removed them. "…I saw you on the Treeline," she spoke softly as she started to wrap the bandages tightly around her bruised arm. Her eyes quivered at the pressure, and for the briefest of moments Garret thought he saw a grimace flash across her face, before it was lost beneath her usual mask of neutrality. She cast an inquisitive glance at his blackened arm while she tended to her broken arm. "Can you let it out?" She asked simply.

"Her," Garret corrected, quickly and primly. "And I am quite certain _we_ can transition now, yes." He ignored the way her brow rose by just a fraction when he corrected her.

"…Good," she relented finally, tightening the bandages and knotting it quickly, with nimble fingers and deft movements, before reaching up and grasping the dusty travelling cloak that had been draped over her right shoulder. "It… _She_… will be necessary, if we're to defeat what's coming," she muttered, and with a powerful yank, the cloak came loose with a loud _rip_. "There's no running from him…" She said darkly as she proceeded to spin the tattered cloak around her arm as well.

As if on cue, a loud _crash_ sounded in the distance. It was far enough to sound muted, subdued, even, but its effect was no less pronounced; a cacophony of caws and hoots and screeches surrounded them as birds of every shape and size took to the skies, stirred from their nests by the enemy's approach. Garret risked a glance back at Riven, and immediately wished he hadn't; gone was the mask of neutrality, replaced by a frown and an expression of absolute worry. With a muted huff she finished binding her arm with the bandages and cloak, and quickly rose to her feet, pawing at the buckle of the belt that had been haphazardly draped around her hips. With a loud click the piece of apparel came loose, and she quickly set to work on trying to fashion a sling for her arm… with minimal success, if the way she were fumbling with the buckle was any indication.

Another crash sounded, _far_ closer than the last, and as its echo died the silence that settled across the undergrowth was almost deafening. With a grunt of mounting dread, Garret turned and strode over to Riven. "May I at least help with this?" He asked - as sincerely as he could, given how his nerves were going brittle at the thought of approaching combat – while pointing at the buckle. "Distractions could be unpleasant if this 'he' appears now," he added.

She appeared taken aback at first – he could have _sworn_ she did – but it lasted but a second, as yet another crash bellowed from the undergrowth, this once accompanied by the tell-tale sign of a tree slamming down on cold ground. Riven kept her gaze on the direction the ruckus was coming from – but stopped fumbling, instead using her grip on the belt to push the buckle out towards him.

He didn't need any other cues. He quickly relinquished his grip on the scimitar, which remained floating beside him, and quickly tended to Riven's makeshift sling – within moments it _clicked_ into place, and gingerly he gave it a slight tug to make sure it was secure. Riven's arm jumped at the motion, but she was otherwise unresponsive. "Will you be alright?" He asked, softly, shakily. Riven turned to regard him curiously at first, but eventually nodded, determination shining in those red orbs.

"…Let him focus on me," she said, "and let _her_ attack him from his blind spots."

Garret opened his mouth, intent to reply…

And at that moment, their hunter announced his presence.

It started slowly, lowly, a muted exhale of breath sneaking between the roots of the undergrowth. Then it grew, louder and louder, until the outright _demonic_ sound resembled a _hiss_ that seemed to seep from the very nothingness in the air around them. Garret reached for the scimitar by his side, and felt that familiar pang of alien excitement bloom in his stomach, dispelling the earlier uncertainty and worry looming there, and Riven reached back, seizing the broken black blade sheathed at the small of her back, and drew it, holding it daintily even though it seemed to weigh a ton.

'_Furia,'_ Garret chanced, his thoughts shaken by the sinister hiss that had been directed at them. '_An enemy approaches. Are you ready?'_

And to his great relief, he received a reply.

"_Always, Garret. Always." _

Then another hiss came – and two _piercing_ yellow eyes bloomed in the depths of the undergrowth.

The lumbering beast clambered into their small clearing with measured, yet weighted steps, each footfall making the earth beneath them shudder with dread. Like a great beast breaching water's surface, their enemy rose from the undergrowth, ferns and stray branches pulling at his form before ripping and snapping under his unimpeded march forwards. When the rays of sunlight filtering in through the jungle's canopy finally illuminated the beast, in all its monstrous glory, Garret's worry morphed to sheer, blood-chilling terror.

Like Sion, the thing was colossal – but that was where the similarities ended. The sunlight danced across scales that seemed like wrought steel, tightly wound across rippling muscle that spasmed and twitched, from anticipation or exhilaration or downright bloodthirst, Garret was too scared to guess. Adorned in pieces of armour reminiscent of ancient Shurima, the monster stopped five metres from them, its trunk like legs planting themselves into the earth as its reptilian tail danced hypnotically in the air behind it. A crocodilian head sat upon its shoulders, maw agape and bloodstained teeth glistening in the dim lighting, and its golden eyes, _ablaze_ with mindless rage, were transfixed right on Riven.

And in its right hand it held a weapon Garret could only summarise as a _guillotine_.

This, Garret realized… This was an Ascended.

The excitement in his stomach, excitement he _knew_ was not his own, suddenly _exploded_, flooding his body and setting it alight with heat and shivers. The red tints around his vision enveloped his sight, tinting everything crimson as his heart seemed to beat by the scores a minute. It seemed as though the distraction worked just as he intended it to. Finally he heard Furia's voice in the recesses of his mind, _leaking_ bloodlust and excitement:

"_Renekton…"_

If Garret felt fear upon recognizing that name, the excitement and anticipation flooding him from all angles did not allow him to feel it. Even he had heard of Renekton; the Ascended hero of ancient Shurima, and a patron saint of the desert's warriors. That being was akin to a _god_...

…and now it was standing five metres from them. Its yellow eyes were still locked on Riven, who was – to her credit, and to Garret's extreme worry – slowly breaking away, with careful, measured steps. '_Do you…'_ He started, before flinching as another torrent of giddiness wracked his emotions. '_Do you… want to fight that thing, Furia?'_ He asked warily.

"_Yeeeeeessss…"_ Gods above, the warmaiden had sounded downright _aroused_ there. If his current emotional state weren't such a _maelstrom_ he'd have been bashful about it. He tried to form the right words to speak, in the hazy midst of the torrential emotions he was experiencing, both his own and Furia's. He wanted to tell her to do as she wished; to go mad, fight to her heart's content, and not fret about death despite the fact that he felt he wouldn't be getting over it anytime soon.

Those thoughts died, when Renekton's golden gaze suddenly snapped to him – and those eyes turned _blood red_ at the sight of his blackened arm. Another hiss escaped its gaping maw, one so loud, so forceful, so _violent_ it sent droplets of spittle flying, and in a _cavernous_ voice…

"_**Blood Fiend…**_"

…the Ascended spoke, and his statement shattered the silence around them.

For a moment, Garret was dumbstruck – and from the way Furia's emotions outright _warped_ into a state of numb shock told him she experienced the same feeling.

The monster's legs _tensed_, then, rippling muscles _coiling_ around its joints, and –

"Garret! _Move!_"

…and only his little hop of surprise at the sudden inflection of Riven's voice saved him from certain death, as the beast's titanic jaws slammed shut on the spot Garret's head had occupied a mere _second_ before with enough force to buffet his face and make his hair whip back. His throat dried out and constricted, seeing those deadly fangs mere _inches_ from his face, and immediately a _flood_ of Furia's past experiences assailed him, steering his body into a hasty, haphazard attempt to put some distance between himself and the monster.

Renekton did not allow him that luxury.

The Ascended _surged_ forward, guillotine flailing as it decimated fallen trunk and stone and shrub and foliage alike under its dicing onslaught, and before Garret could _blink_, the guillotine was sailing edge-first towards his neck, intent on removing his head from his body. He had _no idea_ what spurred him into the haphazard roll to the side, but as the strike that would have killed him merely took a chunk out of a tree a foot or two behind him, he didn't question it – instead trying to buy himself some more time again.

The flat of Renekton's guillotine then slammed into the side of Garret's face, and cut those thoughts short.

Sky and ground became a blurred panorama of mixed colours as he was sent cartwheeling into the air, slamming into a mossy, fallen tree trunk with enough force to make it budge, and getting the wind knocked out of him in the process. He tried blinking the spots from his eyes, and the alien shock in the back of his mind faded away and the familiar bubbling, roiling excitement pooled in his gut again, but a shadow loomed overhead, and he could _hear_ steel whistling through the air, and instinctively he hurled himself to the side just as the Ascended's curved blade reduced the fallen log to wood chips. Using the momentum from his roll, Garret scrambled back to his feet, vaulting over a small boulder in his way in a bid to put _something_ between himself and the immitigable maelstrom of violence and hate pursuing him. The beast _roared_ behind him, so loud it made his ears ring, but it had seemingly stopped to do so – and Garret took full advantage of that.

A desperate sprint put about ten metres between himself and the war-god, and he quickly spun on his heel, holding out his hands as if reaching for something – and within a _moment_, two more scimitars had formed in his hands. He locked eyes with Renekton, terror-stricken, adrenaline fuelled green orbs gazing into pools of burning, furious crimson…

Then a bronze blur _shot_ into the air behind the tyrant, gleaming green in the muted rays of sunlight.

Riven's arc of flight managed to awe Garret into inaction for a moment – she spun mid-air as though the broken arm didn't hinder her in the least, and her good hand swung the broken runeblade down, aiming _right_ for the Ascended's eye.

Fury, however, did not dull Renekton's senses in the least.

Red eyes blinked as they beheld the shadow floating beside the tyrant's own, and with a _venomous_ hiss the Ascended swung his guillotine up to meet the Noxian mid-flight. Their blades clashed with a deafening impact, black against grey, jagged against curve, before the two disengaged. Renekton righted himself first, howling with rage as he swung the guillotine in a crescent, aiming to bisect the nimble woman mid-flight – and missing, as Riven twisted her body aside. The blade missed her face by mere _inches_, severing a few hairs as she descended, and when she landed on her knees, the spiky bun she had done her hair up into came loose, allowing her silver locks to cascade down, framing her face and just barely touching her shoulders.

She let not a minute go to waste – she leapt again, somersaulting backwards as Renekton's curved blade upended the very earth she stood on moments earlier, and Riven exploited the opening. With a battlecry laced with steel she surged forward, and her jagged blade lanced across the tyrant's chest. A _burst_ of bright green energy erupted from the blade, a kinetic discharge so powerful it made the ascended stumble – but this served only to fuel his rage.

Garret shook himself from his stupor, and decided to take action. The scimitars clutched in his hands dispersed with a loud _crash_, and the red mist formed a bow, several arrows already floating beside it. Furia's own expertise with the weapon quickly dawned on him, and he repeated the process – nock, draw, aim, this time much more fluidly. He held his breath and kept his gaze on the reptilian titan; Riven was _dancing_ around it, evading every powerful strike with a graceful hop or leap, a spin, a twirl, a flip – but she had been put on the defensive. The Ascended's assault was relentless.

_There_.

The bowstring snapped back into place as Garret loosed the arrow, and it slammed right into the side of the tyrant's face, shattering into mist. There was no way it could pierce his scales – but it _did_ catch his attention. The beast turned to _hiss_ at Garret – only to falter again, as Riven's blade slammed against the side of its face. Scale parted beneath its jagged edge, and the tyrants eyes widened – but not in pain. With a roar that caused the very trees around them to quake, the guillotine lashed out again, in such an encompassing, _sinister _arc Riven had no choice but to disengage.

That, it turned out, was exactly what the beast wanted.

There was something _deeply_ haunting about the anguished, _raw_ scream of pain that poured from Riven's throat when Renekton's muscular tail slammed into her right side, _right_ across her broken arm. It was a blow powerful enough to send the woman flying, and despite her most valiant attempts to right herself in mid-air she still stumbled when she landed, dropping to one knee with a pained heave as her injured arm twitched and spasmed, and her whole body shook from the sudden lance of pain.

Renekton roared at them, in rage and triumph, before readying his blade, his murderous gaze settled on both of them. His tail swished erratically, the wound on the side of his face dribbled blood, and he seemed tenfold more agitated than he was when he had first appeared to them…

…But Renekton was no worse for wear.

That fact chilled Garret to his core. What _was_ it with this Institute of War and its unstoppable forces of nature?

The excitement that had been pooling in Garret's stomach pulsed then; it writhed and roiled, coiling around his limbs and doing its best to ensnare his senses. Crimson bled into his vision again; all colour was replaced with varying shades of black and red and his sight _shook_, as did his body. "_Garret…"_ Furia's voice was hushed, _strained_, even – all her earlier unease and discomfort _forgotten_ in the face of such a powerful foe. "_Garret… Let me fight…"_ Slowly, yet surely, he felt his grasp of his own senses slip away. And yet…

…He could not be worried.

'_I do not need to _let you_ do anything, Furia,'_ He responded calmly, closing his eyes as the bow in his hands shattered. The darkness of closed eyes slowly tinted red, bright and blood-hued, but that, too, did not bother him. '_I've told you before. This is all for you…'_ He said as he felt the familiar warmth he felt on the Treeline envelop him.

The transition was a success.

'_Do have fun, Furia…'_

* * *

_Frenzy._ _Blood. The clash of steel against steel, and the sound of flesh parting under a blade's edge._

This was her home ground, her nature personified and embodied. To her, in the throes of combat there was no sadness, no uncertainty. There was no hesitation, no confusion – only frenzy, only bloodlust, only _excitement_, and the rush and the thrill of battle. Gone were the feelings of hesitation, the feelings of regret and sorrow – in the face of a war-god they had all but dispersed, leaving only… _joy_.

The look on the agile woman's face when Furia stormed past, charging _right_ at Renekton with twin axes drawn and poised to strike, was nothing short of glorious.

Renekton _roared_ at her, surging forwards to meet her charge head on. Her axes dispersed and she tucked forwards, rolling right between his legs and rising to her feet behind him, dashing to the left to avoid the retaliatory strike from the beast's tail. Her axes manifested again, and she leapt, finding footing on the root of Renekton's reptilian tail and _slamming _her axes down on his exposed back. Scales parted only slightly beneath the assault – but she had never intended to pierce through his hide.

She dropped down again, dipping low and slipping through under the tyrant's legs again as he spun to try and assault the person who dared to strike at his back. Her axes bit into the scales covering his heels, giving way with much less resistance. She had to desist, though, as the tyrant's tail lashed at her again.

_This…_

_This_ was what she lived and breathed for, she thought as the Ascended launched a flurry of devastating swings at her, his guillotine screeching lowly as it seared the air as it went. Every strike was aimed to cull her, to cut her down with white-hot fury, and she _loved every minute of it_. Every time the blade missed narrowly enough to _graze_ her, every time she was buffeted by the shockwave kicked up by the beast's swings. Despite Renekton's relentless assault putting her entirely on the defensive, she could not stop the peals of joyous laughter escaping her. Her own voice mingled with Garret's own, creating a truly cacophonic, alien sound – one she found to be quite pleasant.

A _flash_ of green bloomed behind the Ascended tyrant, and from the corner of her vision Furia saw that Noxian woman return to the fray. Riven, Garret had identified her… Her face, pale from the pain and matted with sweat, was set into a grim mask of determination, and her blade… Furia's heart almost fluttered when she saw that blade. It had been reforged, be it by force of will or magic, she did not _care_. It shone with emerald might, three glyphs lining the dark flat of the blade, and Riven was wielding the now-colossal sword with _one hand_.

In the back of her mind, she noticed even Garret was astounded by that feat.

Whistling winds broke that train of thought, and once more Furia lashed out, shattering her axes against the side of Renekton's guillotine with enough force to push it off course. She resumed her nimble dance around the titanic beast, evading, weaving, hopping and dropping, lashing out whenever an opportunity presented itself. The beast snapped at her, and it missed narrowly enough that two fangs sank into the collar of Garret's duster and shredded it, but still she kept moving.

Riven commenced her assault from the monster's other side, her giant blade moving with no less speed than it did when it was broken. The newly reforged edge easily pierced the scales on Renekton's back, opening a weeping gash from his shoulder blade to his hip. The blade discharged another burst of magic, staggering the beast again – but still, it was no worse for fear.

And Furia noticed, with an amount of worry that pierced through the haze of her elation, that Garret's body was beginning to grow weary.

A plan had to be made. If her weapons were not strong enough to drive through the beast's scales, she would resort to force over cutting power; her axes dispelled, and the mist coiled in her hands, forging an enormous flanged mace. She hopped back, using the momentum to power a swing, and the head of the mace slammed against the base of Renekton's tail with a sickening crunch. The weapon itself had dispelled, but the impact had done what was needed – an oozing rip now lined the side of the reptilian appendage.

Her instincts screamed at her then, and her hearing, no less keen after centuries of death, heard an object sailing on a collision course with her face. Again, she nimbly moved – but too slow. Fatigue had caught Garret's body – just as the _crushing_ backhand from the tyrant caught her across the face.

She hit the ground twice as she flew before she righted herself, quivering as the pain set in. Something she had last felt _ages_ ago, now blooming on the side of her face… A short chuckle escaped her as she shook her head. A crude, almost primitive spear formed from her red smoke. With Garret's body losing itself to fatigue, she needed to keep her distance – at least until her host gained his second wind. She twirled the spear twice before readying herself to hurl it at the beast; she set her posture, squared her shoulders and raised her free hand, using her thumb as a reference point, before loosing the spear with a decent amount of strength.

It slammed home against the flat of Renekton's guillotine, knocking it off course before the beast's swing had even begun and allowing Riven several more moments to continue her assault. Renekton, ever the war-god, met her charge head-on; even with his blade thrown off course he was quick to retaliate with his free arm. He would slam his vambrace against her wrist and knock her own swing off course, or use it to parry her colossal blade with barely a flinch. The beast may have been slow, but he was skilled – skilled, and mighty.

Again, Furia formed a spear and loosed it, this time aiming for the wound she had opened across its tail. The monster, however, was well aware of her now, and a simple shift of his stance allowed him to combat both Riven and herself at once. The guillotine was heavy, and almost all-encompassing; in Renekton's skilled hand there was no direction he could not block an attack from. The heavy, curved blade spun in his hands as he moved, batting aside Riven's strikes and intercepting any of Furia's ranged attacks in the same action.

Riven changed tactics, then – she started using her natural agility to weave circles around the beast, keeping its focus on her. Furia took advantage of this with manic glee; spear after spear flew from her hands as she cackled madly, slamming into Renekton with deceptive force; they either shattered on impact and staggered him, or missed their mark due to Renekton's own deceptive dexterity. Furia chanced a glance at her momentary ally – just as Riven's eyes locked onto something interesting:

The wound Furia had opened across Renekton's tail.

It was enrapturing, seeing the gears in the woman's head churn as her eyes lit up with an idea. Furia breathed deep, feeling new energy return to Garret's limbs, and dispelled her throwing spears. She formed two scimitars in her hands, and charged, instinct laying Riven's plan bare before her.

Her own weapons lacked the heft to _truly_ bite into Renekton's flesh… But Riven's reforged blade had no such problems.

Her blades trailed red as she charged, and she laughed manically as the beast saw her approach. His roar made her _shudder_, delight coursing through her being as her presence was acknowledged, and Renekton's stance shifted once again, aeons of training and skill manoeuvring into a position to fight both herself and Riven on equal ground. She dropped into a slide as the guillotine came full circle, hopping back up and slashing at his unguarded legs as Riven tried to position herself. Instead of repositioning his blade for another strike, Renekton spun in tandem with it, bringing it around again with even _more_ momentum. Furia lashed out with her blades again, hoping to push it off course, but it barrelled through her weapons as though they were air, and only quick thinking saved her; the curved blade merely bit deeply into her cheek instead of taking her head off.

Her cry of pain was short lived, and soon it devolved into an insane, _delighted_ giggle. Her might, the same thing that forged her blades from her bloody smoke, cauterized the wound immediately. The lance of muted, burning agony brought a content hum from her, as she _revelled _in feeling that which was, for so long, part of her very nature. Then she forged her curved blades once more, and sprang to action.

Theirs was a three-way dance of destruction and carnage; blades drifted and floated, trailed and coiled, striking and colliding and blocking and _shattering _with equal occasion. Again, Renekton's blade bit into Furia's flesh, tearing a gash across her host's chest in an opening birthed from the death of his second wind. Again and again, Riven tried to position herself – the cut across the beast's tail was at an awkward angle, and she herself had only one arm to drive her blade home. But again and again, Renekton's stance shifted, denying her a window to do so.

So Furia took the initiative. One scimitar dispelled, its smoky remnants fashioning a kite shield. Usually she found the object distasteful – there was no skill, no glory, to be found hiding behind a sheet of steel. For this gambit, though, it had to be. The shield shrunk, to the size of a mere buckler, and with a huff, Furia twirled the curved blade, holding it reversed. The beast swung its guillotine again, roaring in fury and bloodthirst, and in the _moment_ Furia evaded it, she used it to signal the Noxian girl – a simple nod sufficed.

It _had_ to suffice.

For the umpteenth time Furia slid between the Ascended tyrant's massive legs, and with a loud, bloodthirsty growl she _drove_ her blade into the beast's heel. It pierced but a fraction of an inch, and shattered like all her other blades – but it served its purpose. Renekton levelled his gaze at her, rage blazing in his red eyes like an inferno. "C_om_e _t_h_en_, _o_h wa_r_r_ior_," Furia taunted, forming a spear as her shield expanded to its full size. "_I_s **t**_**h**_**i**_**s**_ _wha_t y_o_u c_all_ car_na_g_e_?!"

The roar she received in response was all the answer she needed.

The guillotine lashed out with ferocity she had not witnessed yet; she weaved to the side and her heart skipped a beat as the blade passed by her face so narrowly she could _feel_ the coolness of the steel wash over her. Renekton had switched hands before the curved blade had even completed its swing, chaining a second strike so soon after the first most would have been caught flat footed – just as Furia was; the blade lanced across her host's collarbone and tore a chunk out of her kite shield – but the brunt of the attack had been evaded.

Then came the strike she had anticipated.

Forgoing the use of his guillotine entirely, Renekton's clenched fist shot outwards, like a cobra striking in the blink of an eye. His fists formed a perfect shape, one geared to wreak havoc once it struck flesh, and Furia dispelled her spear and raised her kite shield. It would not last, she knew; it would shatter, just as all her other weapons did. But she did not _need_ it to stop Renekton's punch.

She merely needed it to rob the attack of most of its force.

Renekton's fist slammed home – the kite shield halted it for but a second before shattering, and Furia's red-tinted vision _blacked out_ as the fist slammed clean into her face. The mere impact jerked her head back with enough force to make her neck sprain, and the blow lifted her clean off her feet, hurling her back like a ragdoll. Her body hopped once before she tried to right herself, only to stumble back into a roll and hop again before coming to an abrupt, awkward stop. Furia scrambled to her knees, shaking the dark spots from her vision and hoping with all her might a part of Garret's skull hadn't been fractured, before looking up…

…Just as Riven brought her sword down on Renekton's tail, the blade aligned _perfectly_ with the wound.

It was… underwhelming, Furia opined as she rose to her feet. There wasn't a crack of shattering scales or a crunch of steel fracturing bone. Just a snip, one barely causing an echo, and –

Renekton _roared_.

The sheer volume was enough to make Furia stumble, nursing the aching skull as she was. It was a gesture laced with agony, unbearable agony. She detected many emotions accompanying the pain. There was shock, frustration, some shame…

…But the most prevalent emotion was _rage_.

Riven sprang to action immediately, abusing the opening Renekton's agony had caused to its fullest effect. Her normally red eyes glowed green as her blade _hummed_ with magic, it's runic engravings _shining_. A sheath of green enveloped the Noxian woman's blade, compressing itself and sharpening to a cunning, _chilling_ edge as it pulsed with energy. Riven rolled her good shoulder, grimacing, before commencing her assault. She spun on her heel, trying to build up the momentum to swing the blade at the correct angle. A magical blade of that magnitude, at the right angle? Furia giddily wagered it would rend that war-god clean in half. So she grinned, the smoke making up her visage convulsing accordingly, and waited as time seemed to slow to a crawl.

Her anticipation turned to horror when the cloud of agony dispersed from Renekton's eyes before Riven had even gotten halfway through her swing.

Immediately her scimitars formed again, even as she felt her connection with Garret weaken as his body started to give out. Renekton seemed to _sneer _at her, his red eyes flicking from Furia to Riven, before he _moved_ with an amount of speed no being of his size should possess. He spun, faster than Riven could even hope to, and _hurled_ his guillotine – right at Furia. Elation dissipated entirely as shock and surprise took hold, and in the wake of Garret's fatigue all she could do was blindly pitch forward into a haphazard scramble and _hope_ the blade missed. It sailed across her, the wind trailing behind it literally whipping Garret's long hair around, but Furia did not let that deter her. She shattered her blades and formed them into a javelin, hoping to at _least_ put Renekton off balance before he could do… _whatever_ he planned to do.

But fate, this time, did not favour her.

Riven's battlecry reached Furia's ears the moment the warmaiden had scrambled to her feet and taken aim. With a fierce expression the Noxian woman completed her spin – and her expression turned to one of shock and dismay when she found Renekton less than two feet from her. With a _vicious_ hiss the beast lashed out, his vambraces colliding with Riven's wrist and knocking her blade off course.

The obsidian sword loosed its wave of emerald magics into a _vicious_ blade of might that only expanded as it travelled – and it missed Renekton completely…

…instead flying right towards Furia.

A flash of green was all the warning the warmaiden had before her body – _Garret's_ body – was forcibly jolted back, as though shoved. For those precious few _painful_ moments time seemed to slow to a crawl. Furia saw everything clearly at that point; the way the steam floated from Renekton's nostrils when he exhaled, the way Riven's eyes had widened in _sheer, unbridled horror_ – and Garret's now-severed left arm, floating haplessly before her as it plummeted to the ground.

Her senses start to leave her at a rapid pace as the pain _exploded_ around her shoulder. With a distasteful hiss she weathered the onslaught of agony, struggling to stay upright as Garret's body started to fail. Their shared right was all but useless by now, and the way her head was lolling about spelt nothing good. With the last of her will, the last bit of power she could muster she formed a last spear, intent at least on delivering a last blow before her host's body gave in entirely.

But again, Renekton beat her to the punch.

The Ascended had taken advantage of Riven's shock, if the bruises on her face were anything to go by. Renekton's fists struck in powerful, clapping snaps, blows that seemed to daze the Noxian with every strike. Finally one of its titanic hands seized her right around the face and _lifted_ her clean off the ground – and the lizard's eyes finally flicked over to Furia's stumbling form.

Her spear shattered as Renekton reared his arm back, and a bitter chuckle escaped her as realization set in. Using one enemy as a physical weapon against another… as expected of one hailed as a war-god. And yet… In the midst of her bitterness, despair started to claw at her heart.

She truly thought they could win. It was why she weathered that punch in the first place. She believed she and Riven could strike down this monster, as so many others had done historically – as she _herself_ had done in life. Now… Now her host was without an arm. If the trauma didn't kill him… then Renekton surely would.

It felt as though her heart quivered at that thought.

'_Do have fun,'_ he told her, and what fun it was… but at such a steep cost.

Her host would die again.

And once more, it would be _all her fau-_

'_No, Furia.'_

She jolted as Garret's voice reached out from their shared subconscious. Her eyes, white on that face of red smoke, widened as her host addressed her. That voice… it was wracked with pain and agony, but… It was still warm. Kind.

Still _compassionate_.

'_This situation… is looking grim,'_ Garret spoke to her, chuckling ruefully. '_But… Don't fret, Furia. Don't fret for a moment. What I saw during this battle, Furia… I won't lie. It confused me, perplexed me. I cannot fathom how anyone can laugh so joyously in a fight for their lives. But…'_ He paused for a moment, as though the agony had overcome him briefly. '_But I saw you happy, Furia. And that… Despite the odds of dying now, that makes me happy.'_

"_But… You… You'll die again," _she responded lamely. Now she couldn't even _feel_ her legs; it was more sheer will that keeping her upright. While the pain was fast fading, so was their physical connection; and that caused her no small amount of worry.

'_Well,'_ he chuckled, a dry cough slipping in between the syllables, '_we are fortunate then, that it is not permanent. Not here, at least.'_ He remained quiet then, for a moment, before speaking again. '_You have nothing to fret over, Furia. You have done well enough. I do not blame you for anything – so please… don't blame yourself.'_

A blur flickered in her vision, and Furia refocused herself only to see Riven flying towards her at an _alarming_ speed. Garret's words… kind as they were, they did not alleviate this… this _sorrow_ she felt at letting him down again. But… When he had said that he was happy, seeing _her_ happy… That foolish, foolish man had sounded so sincere when he had said it, she… she could not bring herself to disbelieve him.

So just as their connection started to slip away, just before Garret's mind took the reins and just before Riven bodily crashed into their shared vessel, Furia allowed herself to learn a single, crucial fact:

She still had _much_ to learn about her host.

* * *

The impact had cruelly ripped him from the warm, comforting confines of their shared subconscious, and the pain that suddenly _transcended_ mere feeling and took its place as Garret Hillock's defining existential factor made his vision white out and his throat dry up and constrict painfully as he was sent tumbling along. The agony that seemed to _bask_ every nerve ending in the left part of his body in white-hot fire rendered him unable to even _think_; even the desperate, worried cries of… _some woman_ off in the distance didn't register. His body shook and convulsed and quaked and spasmed and despite trying so, _so_ hard just to _scream_, to give voice to his agony and at least find some way to _cope_, it was as though he had short-circuited completely; the body still functioned – barely – but the mind had shut down.

Eventually he regained some of his faculties. Beams of light that pierced through the jungle's canopy lit up his vision, throwing the contrast off balance and making everything seem hundreds of time sharper than it should be, and when he took a deep breath after holding his for so long the barest _hint_ of a pained wail escaped him before he gritted his teeth, gnashing them so hard he would have sworn he heard the enamel crack and give way.

Worthless; he'd been made utterly worthless by that battle, even though _he_ strictly wasn't even part of it. But… Despite the agony tearing at the tips of his nerves, and the way his vision swam and head pounded… He was content. An odd thing to say; whether it was the result of delirium due to a _heavy_ concussion or just the knowledge that he'd come back in one piece that spurred him to say such a thing, he didn't know.

Red eyes appeared in his vision again, lacking that confident edge he'd come to associate with them in such a short time. Riven was… _speaking_ to him, he'd bet, if her moving lips were any indication, but she looked positively mortified. Her hair had come loose, he noticed – it now hung down, framing her face and despite the situation Garret thought it made her look… quite pretty. But… where had those bruises come from?

A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision, and Riven seemed to _jump_ with fright. Out of _nowhere_, the Ascended – Renekton, his pain-addled mind remembered – surged back into his view. Riven was back on her feet in an instant, but her belt-sling had been lost, and her broken arm was now dangling limply by her side.

She didn't let that deter her.

Nimbly she hopped forwards, her blade – broken once more – thrusting and slashing at the reptilian monster's scaly hide. And Renekton… To Garret's great shock, and mounting horror – horror so pronounced it nearly pierced through the haze of agony afflicting his mind – that enraged, mindless, berserk beast proceeded to match Riven with his _bare bloody hands_.

Vambraces slammed into Riven's wrists and knuckles as she tried hopelessly to land more than a glancing blow, and fists the size of sideplates snapped out, slamming into her forearm and bicep. Garret could see the broken blade slipping from Riven's grasp as blow after debilitating blow, until finally the Ascended tyrant landed a _devastating_ hook to Riven's face. The blow knocked her down to her knees and her broken blade went flying, and blood dribbled from her nose and the corner of her mouth as she weakly scrambled to get back to her feet.

Once more, Renekton's colossal hand wrapped all the way around Riven's head, and once more he hoisted her into the air as though she weighed but a pittance. She struggled, admirably, kicking and twisting and pawing at Renekton's arm with her good hand – but the tyrant seemed nonplussed. Garret's hearing returned just in time to hear the beast _hiss_, and with a deep, rumbling growl he reared his arm back and _hurled_ Riven – clean out of sight.

Those baleful red eyes locked onto Garret again, conveying nothing but sheer, animalistic fury and an amount of raw hate he couldn't even hope to fathom. The reptilian beast purposefully strode to the edge of Garret's vision, where it bent down and retrieved the guillotine it had hurled at him, when Furia had been in control. Then it burned back, and started lumbering towards Garret, red eyes blazing and mouth _oozing_ spittle.

"_**Die,**_" he commanded finally, raising the guillotine above his head by the centre-most grip with one hand. "_**FILTH!**_"

Despite his most valiant efforts to show some bravery for _once_ in his life, Garret's heart leapt right up into his throat as he watched that gleaming blade hover above him. They'd done well enough, he told himself. Furia had been happy – _honestly happy_ – in that fight, and… that was all that mattered, he supposed. He said it once, and he'd stick with that. So he screwed his eyes shut, relishing in the darkness that overtook his vision, and awaited the inevitable killing bl-

A blast akin to a thunderclap _deafened_ him at that moment, and despite his eyes being closed a bright blast managed to shine clean through his eyelids. His ears rang, and his body _shook_ from the fright at the sudden loud report. Dust and other small bits of debris rained down onto his face, and with a mix of a terrified groan and a pained whimper Garret managed to raise his good hand and shield his eyes somewhat before opening them.

A cloud of smoke. He'd been caught right in the middle of some kind of smokescreen, it seemed. Unlike Furia's crimson smoke, that coiled and snaked, this cloud seemed to _bloom_ from an epicentre. If Garret hadn't known any better he'd have sworn he'd been saved by some kind of bomb – but that was just ludicro-

Shadows moved within the cloud of smoke, and before he could even blink, Renekton's guillotine came plummeting from the air. This time, he did scream – hoarsely, and quite softly, given how dry his throat was, but the terror he felt at that moment had been _real_ and _immense_, and even when the blade itself, sans its wielder, embedded itself into the ground mere inches next to his head, his mouth still hung ajar, lips quivering and eyes trembling from the terror.

Thank goodness, his delirious mind supplied, that he was hidden a cloud of smoke and nobody could see him.

Another clap of thunder echoed in the distance – from the other side of the river – and once again, a massive explosion rocked the earth beneath him. He tried to call out, to see if the interloper was friend or foe, when a strong hand seized him by the tattered remnants of his collar and _pulled_. Every lull in momentum led to the stump of his arm tapping against the ground, but like so many injuries beforehand, Garret's will managed to win out, and he powered through his pain by gritting his teeth. Another thunderclap sounded, a loud crack that split the air, and once again an explosion echoed close by. His head lolled back, partly out of fatigue and partly through a deliberate action, so he could at least see who saved him.

_Riven_.

She was heavily bruised – her left eye was nearly swollen shut, her nose was bent crooked, her lip seemed busted in three places, and the strands of light hair framing her face were tinted red; but she kept her face set into a grim mask of determination, sneering from time to time, whether from pain or fatigue, he could not begin to fathom. And behind her…

Garret nearly laughed aloud.

Never in his life had he been so happy to see a Yordle.

Tristana's cannon was aimed squarely at where Garret assumed Renekton would be now. Her normally jovial, happy-go-lucky expression had been replaced by a downright _savage_ mask of focus and discipline, and her ears, usually expressive, had drooped low and folded back against her head. Her cannon belched fire again, and the recoil rocked her tiny frame considerably, but she remained planted where she stood, not even _blinking_ in the face of the tremendous flash that flared from her cannon's muzzle with every shot.

The earth trembled again, then, and once more Garret heard a furious, bloodthirsty roar that he was very, very quickly learning to fear.

Renekton burst from the cloud of smoke Tristana's barrage had kicked up. His scales were singed and his colossal form seemed to _weep_ wisps of smoke, but those red eyes shone with the same ferocity and rage they held when they first turned that shade. His gaze locked on Garret again, and he roared once more, the act actually dispelling some of the smoke that lingered near his muzzle. "_**You will not escape me!"**_He bellowed, arms seemingly convulsing from the force he was using to clench his fists.

Tristana clicked her tongue, muttering obscenities under her breath as she squeezed off shot after pinpoint shot at the lumbering tyrant. The first slammed clean into his chest, sending a ripple along the scaly musculature there and making the beast stagger a good few steps back – but Renekton shrugged it off and resumed his surged forward. The second shot was anticipated – it slammed against Renekton's raised vambraces with an unholy crash, denting the armour before the cannonball dropped harmlessly to the ground. Tristana frowned, then, and flipped a switch on the side of her cannon before firing a _glowing_ cannonball towards her target. Again, Renekton raised his arms, in a bid to block the shot with his armour, but the moment it impacted, the Ascended was enveloped in a _colossal_ plume of flame. It roiled and twisted as it burned everything around the beast…

…and yet, Renekton did not falter. He burst from the fire with a loud, bestial hiss, singed and charred in places all across his colossal frame. His vambraces clattered to the ground, fragments of them turned into malleable slag, but Renekton did not even _stumble_.

"…Dammit, dammit, _dammit!_" Tristana hissed, quickly fidgeting with the switch on her cannon again. Renekton was less than thirty metres from Riven and Garret now – and the beast had shown an _uncanny_ amount of speed when trying to close a distance. The Yordle Gunner shifted her stance, bracing one leg backwards and one forwards before taking aim – right at the monster's face.

Their eyes met for a moment – red clashing against brown – before Tristana grit her teeth and pulled the trigger.

Renekton's eyes narrowed dangerously as the cannon belched fire. He hissed, reared back, bared his fangs –

And caught the cannonball right between his jaws, stopping it in its tracks.

The mere act shocked Garret and all his allies into inaction.

Renekton hissed, then, and scales and muscles around his maw rippled and churned as he bit down. Iron screeched and wailed as the beast's jaws squeezed down on it, expanding and popping and bending and shifting in shape until it was nothing but a vaguely elliptical hunk of worthless steel. The tyrant growled, the sound pooling around the mangled cannonball and echoing across the dead silence before he whipped his head to the side, hurling the mangled chunk of steel into the undergrowth.

Then his gaze turned to his three victims again.

Tristana let her shocked stupor last for but a minute; she quickly braced her cannon on her shoulder and darted forward with a speed only a Yordle could possess. She was by Riven's side before Renekton could even resume his surge forward. "Grab his other shoulder," she ordered Riven, as she grabbed Garret by the left lapel of his duster. "Hurry!"

Riven complied in an instant, years of routine and discipline kicking in at the sight of someone who would undoubtedly outrank her. She let go of Garret's arm and quickly seized him by his other lapel. A part of him was touched by the gesture, truly. Another part of him – one that pierced through the haze of pain with an urgency that _frightened_ him, made him realize that Riven and Tristana would both die if they remained. "You… You two should flee," he wheezed, looking back at the Ascended. Renekton's eyes had narrowed to near slits, and every step he took covered the same distance Garret's allies managed to drag him. "If he's p-preoccupied with me you could escape…"

"Not happening, new guy…" Tristana grunted, reaching to her belt and yanking a grenade off it. She pulled the pin with her teeth and spat it to the side before hurling the grenade at the approaching colossus. "Remember what I told you earlier?" She said, and despite the grimness of their situation, she flashed him a grin. "I'm too stubborn to leave a comrade behind," she said resolutely, just as the grenade exploded in the distance.

"_**ENOUGH!**_" Renekton's bellowed command made all three of them jump. Once more he powered through the cloud of dust and smoke Tristana's explosive raised – and he was _bristling_. He forewent any semblance of toying with his victims, roaring as he charged forward. His footfalls made the ground beneath them shudder and his fangs _gleamed_ in the fires started by Tristana's bombs. "_**DIE!"**_

Tristana had worry in her eyes, Garret noticed. It… didn't suit her at all. Nonetheless, she let go of his duster, readied her cannon, and threw an inquisitive glance in Riven's direction. "Still got enough in your tank to fight a bit more, Riv?" She asked lowly, turning her attention back to the charging beast. Riven did not reply – but she mirrored Tristana's action, relinquishing her grasp on Garret's duster and drawing her blade. "I'll take that as a 'yessir'," Tristana said glibly.

It was… Garret did not have the words to describe what he was feeling now. Was _this_ the camaraderie that the Institute inspired in its Champions? A Noxian Exile and a Commando from Bandle City, willing to risk life and limb against something akin to a _deity _from Ancient Shurima – all for the sake of a Demacian turncoat? His throat had gone dry all over again. Even after he told them to leave, they refused, remaining steadfast in the face of certain doom. They were…

A part of him felt these two were everything he could never be. He would have fled _long_ ago. They were just like…

…_Isaiah…_

They were just like one of his brothers. The Dauntless one.

Well, Garret thought, if they were all to perish at that moment, so be it. After all, it wasn't as though the death would be permanent. He lamented the fact that he was missing an arm, and the fact that he couldn't even _feel_ most of his body. That… was probably the blood loss speaking. If he still had both arms… maybe he'd have formed that bow again. If only so he could contribute.

Now… Now here they sat. A Yordle, a wounded Noxian and a near-crippled Demacian, facing off against one of ancient Shurima's Ascended.

He chuckled bitterly. It had been… somewhat exhilarating, he admitted. The fact he felt a pang of smugness not at all his own form in his heart was an added bonus. But now… Only a miracle could save them now.

Renekton was ten metres away and closing…

And then, much to Garret's absolute _wonder_, the unthinkable happened.

A raging maelstrom of blue magic surrounded the charging monster, stopping it in its tracks as it grew in intensity. It whipped up harsh winds, uprooted small plants and even flung small rocks around as it swirled around the tyrant. "_**No…**_" he muttered, as the blue magics grew in size and brightness. "_**I… I will NOT!**_"

And with a mighty bellow, and a _jerk _of his colossal frame, Renekton broke free completely of the magics that surrounded him.

It only took Tristana's surprised, _terrified_ exclamation of "_What the fuck?!"_ to clue Garret in that what he just witnessed was _not_ supposed to happen.

Renekton hissed and roared, shaking his head before resuming his charge. He managed three steps before several silver chains surrounded him with a thunderous racket. They coiled like snakes, trying to restrict his every movement, wrapping around his stomach, his chest, his limbs, even his muzzle. And even then – they failed in their goal. The chains binding Renekton's legs snapped with harsh _cracks_ as he broken free, and several more followed, shattering by their weakest links and dropping to the ground before dissipating, rendered useless by the Ascended's monstrous strength. Yet for every chain that the beast snapped, two more took its place. His surge forward had slowed to a crawl, and finally, when he was barely five feet from them, the silver bindings brought the beast to his knees.

Again, the maelstrom of blue magic surrounded him, growing in size and intensity unimpeded by Renekton's reckless disobedience. Yet even the vast, deep blue hue of the Institute's magic did little to diminish that hateful crimson glare in the beast's eyes. It alternated its hateful gaze between the three of them, and even with the beast's muzzle bound tightly, his message was conveyed quite clearly:

_This is not over._

Finally, with a loud _snap_ of magic and a flash of brilliant blue, Renekton disappeared; the carnage he left in his wake – a good half an acre of ruined jungle – and the wounds marring Garret and Riven's bodies were the only traces the Ascended tyrant had ever been there.

Silence reigned for a whole minute.

Then, with a _tremendous_ sigh, Riven sank to her knees, all her energy seemingly _leaving _her at once. Her shoulders slumped and she was lurching forwards where she sat, and her eyes had grown bloodshot from the ordeal. The bandages covering her broken arm had come loose sometime during the fray – and to Garret's great dismay, the limb seemed worse off than ever. Tristana was quick to mirror Riven's action, plopping down on Garret's other side with abject terror still lingering in those dark orbs of hers. "Holy crap that was terrifying…"she muttered. "And I didn't even fight him!" She exclaimed. "Seriously, what the hell? It's been years since the Summoners struggled to keep Renekton on his leash like that…" She trailed off. "Something must've _really_ pissed him off."

Garret said nothing. Honestly, he couldn't – the whole situation was just so mind-numbing he couldn't even begin to describe his sentiment regarding it. With a pained groan, he used his deadened arm to prop himself up. It took several attempts – plus some help from Tristana, who giggled every time Garret's arm gave out and he ended up on his back again – but eventually, he succeeded, leaving the three of them sitting there on the riverbank, catching their breaths. His stump wasn't bleeding anymore, he noticed – most likely the Summoners at work – and what started as a head-splitting, blistering pain had now regressed into a dull, almost ringing ache. But he didn't dare touch the limb. Agitating injuries was something he'd learned to refrain from _long_ ago.

Instead, he turned his attention to Riven. The woman seemed absolutely _exhausted_ – more so than even he was. It was a given, he supposed; she had been fighting Renekton the longest, and if Tristana's commentary was anything to go by, that monster had killed Riven twice before Garret had even met her. He remembered how, less than an hour ago, he wondered just how strong "old scalebutt" could be.

Now that he had his answer he was quite certain Renekton would be haunting his nightmares for _days_ to come.

She must have noticed someone was starting, as she turned to face him, a startled gleam in her eyes. Now, that just wouldn't do, would it? "Are… Are you alright?" He asked, despite all logic telling him _all three of them_ were most certainly _not_ fine. He was expecting an answer laced with suspicion, maybe a bit of sarcasm – after all, his question _had_ slipped out before he could stop himself. Instead he was blessed enough to see those red eyes widen just a _hint_ in surprise – before Riven shot him a look that could only be described as completely exasperated. He could hear Tristana break down into a fit of giggles on his other side, but chose not to comment on it. "I mean… You fought that monster longer than any of us. You look… pretty well done in."

Riven's exasperated look lasted but a moment longer, before she sighed deeply, her shoulders seemingly slumping even further. "I… You should worry about yourself first," she said, her voice barely a whisper and she absently rubbed at her good eye with the back of her hand. "You're the one who lost an arm."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Garret replied glibly, raising his mangled, spiky black arm for all to see. To his great delight, the wisecrack managed to draw the barest of smiles from the white-haired warrior. Tristana, on the other hand, outright broke down laughing.

"Y'know, I can see why Graggy and Jax hang with you," Tristana said, flashing him a winning smile. "You're real chilled."

"Am I?" Garret asked, honestly, shaking his head to dispel some of the fatigue. "Because now that the adrenaline is finally wearing off I think I only made a joke because I _might_ be a hair's breadth away from a complete breakdown." The fact that he was unsure as to whether or not he _might_ have been exaggerating bothered him just as much. Honestly whenever Garret tried to entertain thoughts of what just happened – crossing paths with a being that was once revered as a _god of war_ – his mind, his _greatest tool_, seemingly failed him, choosing to alternate between the thoughts 'I'm alive!' and 'I can't believe I'm alive!' "Honestly," he said, licking his lips. "Half a year ago my biggest concerns were bounty hunters and Demacian scouts. Now I've encountered a mad, undead beast from Noxus, a mad, sadistic spectre of a crazed Warden, a mad, completely evil jester than I'm not certain is even _human_ and lastly a mad, bloodthirsty war-god from Shurima – all in the span of two days." He trailed off. "Part of me thinks this is all a dream, if I can be honest."

"Well," Tristana said with a tiny shrug. "Welcome to the League of Legends, buddy." She gave him a light yet hearty clap on the back, purposely aiming as far away from his left shoulder as possible. He… appreciated that. "You get used to it over time," she said wryly. "And don't worry about a breakdown either. I've seen breakdowns. Riv over there had a breakdown," she helpfully supplied, earning herself a baleful glare from the injured warrior, "after her first death. Trust me, you're far from a breakdown."

He… didn't quite know what to say to that, really. Fatigue, aches and pains, mental strain… It was taking its toll on him, he realized. He was usually quite eloquent, quite verbose, but now… Now he was savouring the silence…. at least, until a thought occurred to him. He turned to face Tristana fully. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I… was so caught up in events I didn't ask if _you_ were alright as well."

Much like how Riven reacted earlier, Tristana's first response was a raised eyebrow. It lasted only a moment, however, before a wide smile broke out across her face. "Ah, I'm fine," she said honestly. "A bit shaken up, because, y'know, a croc squished one of my cannonballs, but hey! Nothing like a good near-death experience to get the heart pumping again, y'know?"

"No. No, I honestly don't," Garret responded honestly, a wry smile on his face. "In fact I'm quite certain _our_ hearts nearly _stopped_," he said, beckoning towards Riven with his head. While she didn't vocally reply, she _did_ give a subtle nod at his words.

"Eh, details," Tristana shrugged with a carefree grin. "At the very _least_, one day you can tell your kids you faced a god and lived. That's something huh?" She said with a smirk.

Despite his most valiant efforts, Garret uttered a short bark of laughter, and even Riven showcased one of those tiny half-smiles again. Any further conversation, however, was halted when all three of them were surrounded by the same vortex of blue magic that had saved them from Renekton's wrath. "Wha… What's this?" Garret asked worriedly.

"No worries, Garret!" Tristana hollered at him over the howling gales spawned by the Institute's magics. "Just a little teleportation. We're going back to the Nexus. In a few seconds you'll have your arm back," she said, offering him a confident wink as the magics surrounding them grew brighter and brighter.

A teleportation… That was convenient, Garret mused to himself. Too convenient, was his first thought, before he abolished it with a shake of his head. Although he _had_ died once, and met people and creatures and _beings_ that seemed to be woven from the same fabrics as nightmares, the Institute's magic itself had not done wrong by him yet. If anything, their quick response to the discomfort he felt after his _last_ battle proved the contrary.

Back to the Nexus, he thought as the magic swallowed him whole.

Hopefully the _rest_ of the match would be so disastrous.

* * *

Fate, for all the odes sang to honour it, can be an overwhelming petty bastard when tempted, Garret thought as the light around him died down and he found himself back in the Summoning Chamber.

With a tired sigh, Garret hid his face in his hands for a moment, rubbing at his eyes. The rest of their match… had been apocalyptic. Despite their most valiant efforts, the enemy had outmanoeuvred and overwhelmed them at every possible turn. The Deathsinger and that "Kog'Maw" thing had denied them _so much ground_, and the treant kept singling Tristana out, surging right past her allies to try and take her out of the fight before it had even gotten properly underway, and that… that _damnable _clown…

Garret had died five times because of that thing's envenomed shivs.

… and that was _before_ Renekton made his grand reappearance.

After the Ascended tyrant stepped back into the fray… Well, Garret was quite certain "hell" was an apt term for what the battle descended into.

A thought occurred to him then, and he shuddered – _violently_. Renekton had killed both Riven and Tristana _moments_ before the match ended. Riven had fought valiantly – for a brief moment, it even seemed as though she would overcome to crocodilian behemoth. Riven with _one_ arm was a deadly fighter – with both she had been absolutely awe-striking. But… Renekton had done _something_, invoked _something_, that… Honestly, if Garret had thought he'd been terrified of the monster at first, his fear was all but increased tenfold after seeing the beast could become _even stronger_.

It was a nightmarish sight. Renekton's eyes had glowed like beacons, and the very cobblestones lining their home base's ground shook and tremble before they outright _uprooted_ themselves. Renekton had torn the sand out from under the foundation of their own base, and surrounding himself with a snowstorm of such severity it had lashed the skin off Riven's arms and legs within seconds. His muscles… They… They coiled and _spasmed_ around his joints, knotting themselves over and over until their mass had all but doubled. The tyrants scales had ripped themselves asunder and mended themselves again several times over, and within moments even some of the beast's armour had cracked and bent before falling to the ground, and before Garret's eyes the thing had effectively _doubled_ in size and height.

Garret lost track of their fight amidst the chaos of the enemy invading their home base – but he remembered seeing the end of Riven's fight against the empowered Renekton clearly. The beast had all but _snatched_ her up in his colossal jaws, and bit down with all the force crocodiles were known for. Garret… He heard Riven's skull _shatter_ under the force of that bite. And Tristana…

Tristana had been caught in the middle of one of her rocket-propelled leaps. Renekton had slammed her down on the cobblestones with enough force to crack her arm and hip, and… Then he had trampled her underfoot, without even sparing her a second thought.

Those, too, were images that would haunt him for a while.

"A hairy match indeed, my boy," he heard Agvald mutter behind him, and a grizzled, mottled hand came to rest on Garret's shoulder. "Much as I hate to say this, that was but the first of many defeats you will experience while you offer service to this Institute."

Garret turned to face the grizzled old Summoner. At this distance, he could see the multitude of wrinkles and age lines and liver spots adorning the man's face clearly. What struck Garret most, however, was the expression on the old man's face: One of regret, and sympathy. "Death is never easy, my boy," he said seriously, emphasizing his words with another pat on the shoulder. "But for what it is worth, Garret; you handled yourself admirably."

"I…" Garret started, before trailing off and considering his words. "At first I wanted to say the deaths didn't bother me that much. But… I would be lying. I experienced it many times in that match, and… I am well aware I will experience it many times more in the future. It unnerves me, if I may be honest. Every time I died I felt that same heart-numbing terror during the event, and that same mind-breaking disbelief afterwards. I… I will not soon get used to that," he said honestly. "But there's a silver lining, Agvald. Something that… Well, foolish as it may sound, there was something that made all the dying somewhat worth it."

"Oh?" Agvald seemed genuinely intrigued, removing his hand from Garret's shoulder. "Do you care to enlighten me as to what this silver lining is?"

"Furia," Garret replied simply, and already he felt her perk up and take notice from within his subconscious. "That clown may have infuriated her more than once," Garret said wryly, "but… all the other times she fought… I was watching, Agvald. I saw how she acted, I… I know what she felt. When she lost herself in the throes of combat, when she was caught up in the thrill of battle… I sensed joy. I sensed happiness, elation. There was a sense of _freedom_ to her actions. When she took control, she was _free_; free to do as she wished after centuries of imprisonment, free to fight to her hearts content, free to adhere to her nature without scorn or judgement. The… The elation, and the unbridled happiness she felt at those moments… That makes every death worthwhile in my opinion," he said with a shaky smile. "Because I have felt that same joy, when this Institute absolved me of my past, and offered me a future. It's… It's one of the best feelings, one I cannot hope to put into words." He trailed off then, thinking back to the times Furia's peals of laughter in the midst of battle weren't mad or frenzied, but _true_; true, and honest. It… It brought a smile to his face, knowing he could make her happy like that. "I care not for victory or defeat," he said finally. "I joined this Institute because I promised Furia I would try to coexist. In a way… I wanted to make her as happy as this place has made me. Knowing I can succeed… Well, that makes _me_ as happy as the endless combat makes her."

Agvald regarded him for a while longer, a curious glint in his eye – before a smile appeared on his face that seemed to disperse the darkness cast by his hood. His eyes twinkled and his shoulders shook in silent laughter. "Truly one of the purest hearts to walk these halls, I dare say," he said warmly. "We are lucky to have you, Mister Hillock."

"And I thank you, sincerely, for believing such a thing of me," Garret said with a light bow. "Just as I thank you for guiding me through that battle. It may have been disastrous, but… At least Furia and I knew we weren't alone in that battle."

"Ah, think nothing of it, Mister Hillock," Agvald said jovially, before walking back to the podium. "Such is the lot of the Summoner. So few new bloods actively care about the Champions they link with, truly a pity." He cleared his throat. "Now far be it from me to rush you, Mister Hillock," he said with a smile, "but I do believe the Starchild was looking for you. She's waiting right outside that door, if I'm not mistaken."

Garret paused, considering that bit of information. Soraka was looking for him? That… gave him a few mixed feelings. On one hand Soraka was an absolutely lovely person, always smiling and kind and compassionate. But… she was part of the Institute's medical branch. Had she discovered something about his condition? A part of him showed excitement regarding that thought. Another… showed trepidation. "Well," he said finally, "I'd best not keep the fair lady waiting. Once more, thank you for your help and guidance, Agvald," he said with a courteous nod. Agvald merely returned the gesture, and gave him another smile, before turning back to the podium.

Garret took that as his cue to leave. With a purposeful stride, he approached the door. For better or for worse, if Soraka wanted to speak with him about something, he'd comply – if only because she'd been so good to him since he came to the Institute.

He paused, though, when he had his hand resting on the dark oaken door's handle. There was… a warmth in the pit of his stomach, he realized. A sensation of contentedness that he knew for a fact could not be his own, not after how shaken all the death and destruction in that match had left him. With a smile he realized exactly whose emotion that was.

Had Furia heard him?

Honestly speaking, he hoped she had – because he had meant every word of it.

And with that thought, the feeling of warmth and contentedness seemed to grow that much stronger.

* * *

The first thing he noticed outside the small single-person Summoning Chamber was the buzz of activity. Summoners decked in robes of all kinds of muted colours were flitting up and down the corridor with haste in their steps. Some robes fluttered, some floated, some remained perfectly static. It was… a huge difference from the abandoned corridor he had seen earlier.

He spotted Gragas further down the corridor. The stout man was almost impossible to miss – he was having a laugh with a short Summoner clad in magenta robes, seemingly as inebriated as he had been when their skirmish on the Rift had started. Tristana was standing beside him, animatedly talking to a kneeling Summoner decked in blue. Despite the smile on her face, her ears had drooped quite low. Getting trampled probably spooked her – and Garret found he couldn't blame her. He had _heard_ her body turn to pulp under Renekton's weight.

Gragas spotted him easily enough, and offered him a haphazard, drunken salute. Tristana noticed him too, and waved energetically – her ears even perked up a bit. Garret returned the wave with a similar amount of enthusiasm, if a bit less energy. Honestly he was exhausted after that match.

Gragas saw something – or some_one_ – behind Garret, and pointed, a tactless action one could only expect from Gragas or Jax. The rotund man shared a last few laughs with his Summoner before turning on his heel and waddling down the corridor. Tristana remained in place after her Summoner left too – she seemed to be considering something. Eventually, she merely shrugged, smiled, and trotted off after Gragas. Garret smiled. His stout friend must have invited her to their favourite hotspot – "drink away the sorrows", as so many people across Valoran said.

He shook those thoughts from his head. He had someone to speak to, after all. He turned on his heel to look down the other end of the hallway, and his eyes fell on Soraka immediately. Not just because of her uniquely exotic appearance, but also because Garret viewed her as a friend, after spending so long in the Institute – even if he _had_ only been a Champion for two days.

Soraka smiled as she stopped before him. "Seems everyone knows I've been looking for you," she said with a smile. "How did you match go?"

"Terribly," Garret said honestly, yet his smile matched hers. "But, what's past is past. I'd rather not spend much time wallowing in the bitterness of defeat. It's nothing a good night's rest won't fix," he said confidently.

"Indeed," she replied, now beaming. "Focus on the light, and the darkness will not hinder you. Would you mind walking with me for a moment, Garret? I think… I may have a way to help with your concerns," she said, motioning down the hallway.

"But of course," Garret agreed, quickly falling into step beside her. "Yours is a council I quite value, Soraka. I'll always make the time to listen, if you've got something on your mind," he said with a smile.

Soraka regarded him with a smile for a moment, before speaking. "I've been thinking about what you told me earlier, about how you're willing to keep searching for a way to reinforce the equilibrium between yourself and Furia. It would seem there's some kind of spiritual dissonance between your spirits, and, well, I may have found someone who is willing to help," she said with a smile. "There's a champion who walks these very halls at times, who shares his being with four spirits of nature's will. I remember an old friend of mine told me of how this man nearly lost himself to his spirits, and how meditation, peace, guidance and wisdom helped this warrior achieve harmony with his animal spirits. I…" She trailed off for a moment, before coming to a stop. She smiled at Garret then, and despite the purity of the action, there was an excited twinkle in her eyes.

"If you are so willing," she started, "I know of two people who are willing to help you achieve resonance with Furia's spirit. Tell me, Garret: Have you ever heard of the Wuju Monastery?"

* * *

The sun had long since set when Garret finally stepped over the threshold and into the warm, homely atmosphere of the bar that he, Jax and Gragas frequented. His first tryst on the Rift had lasted well over five hours, so it really wasn't much of a surprise that it was so late after he had to run the gauntlet to get all that administration done. Still, he was here now. He could kick back, relax, share a few mugs of grog with the few friends he'd made during his stay here, and then finally retire for the night. The fact that his body almost _yearned_ for his bed merely reinforced this train of thought.

Idly he picked at the intricate bracelet that now surrounded the wrist of his human arm. It was nothing too confining or restricting – merely a way for the Summoners to warp him to Institute during the long journey that lay ahead, and for them to warp him back once he was done. A tiny, tiny part of him expressed childlike excitement regarding what the next few weeks had in store, and he harboured no doubt that this part would only grow as the days ticked by until his departure.

"…_Garret?"_

Furia's voice startled him mildly, he had to admit, but nonetheless he smiled. He and Furia hadn't really spoken since the battle on the Rift ended. At first he had been worried… but that sliver of warmth and contentedness he felt before exiting the Summoning chamber told him he shouldn't be. Furia was still aware, still there, looking, listening. But, as she had said: she wasn't proficient in vocalizing her feelings. She would speak when she was ready to. It was a lesson Garret should have learned by now. '_Yes, Furia?'_ He answered kindly. '_Anything you need?'_

"_Just…" _She trailed off, and the confusion pecking at the depths of his subconscious told him Furia was indeed fumbling with her words. "_Just… answers. What you said earlier, Garret… About… About my happiness…"_ She trailed off. "_Did… Did you truly mean it?" _

'_Every word of it,'_ Garret responded immediately, without a moment's hesitation. What he had said in that chamber was something he believed in with a _spectacular_ amount of fervour. '_We reached a compromise, did we not? And I never go back on my word.'_

"_Even… Even if you died, so many times?"_

Ah. That old chestnut. He had expected to feel frustration at the continued prodding regarding his many deaths. Instead… Instead it was rather heartwarming, from his perspective, how a bloodthirsty warmaiden could be so worried about his health that his _death_ caused her large amounts of unease. It proved to Garret that there were, indeed, many depths beneath Furia's initial veneer of bloodthirst and frenzy. '_Yes, Furia. Even if I died repeatedly. As I said, it will… it will take a while for me to grow accustomed to dying on the Fields of Justice. Just as I am certain it took every single Champion of the Institute a while to grow accustomed to it. But the joy I saw you display when you were in your own little world there, Furia? The honest elation and happiness you felt?'_ He said, smiling to himself. '_I would weather countless deaths if it meant you'd be happy like that. Because __**that**__, Furia, is what made __**me**__ happy today.'_

For a few tense moments, silence reigned in Garret's mind. But he knew Furia was still there – the confusion and the _relief_, surprisingly, that floated in his subconscious and sudden ball of warmth and giddiness in his stomach? Those were clear indicators. "_I…" _She started, her voice surprisingly shaky. "_I… T-Thank you, Garret…"_ She said finally, and despite her quivering voice and the confusion she must have been feeling then…

Garret had a feeling she meant it.

'_Think nothing of it, Furia,'_ he responded warmly. '_We are in this together, and we'll succeed together – just as I promised. Now! Let's go find our friends, shall we?'_

Garret found Gragas and Jax somewhere near the back of the bar, with a not so surprising third party present. Tristana had forgone sitting on one of the chairs around the table and had instead opted to sit on the table itself. Her mood was chipper, her smile was wide and her ears, expressive as ever, were perked up and lively. Judging by the amount of empty mugs packed into piles between her and Jax, it seemed as though they were involved in some kind of drinking contest. Smiling, Garret shook his head at the sight. He didn't know which was more humorous to him: the fact that Jax, of all people, was facing a Yordle in a drinking contest…

…or the fact that the Yordle was actually keeping up.

Gragas noticed him first, and welcomed him with a jovial bark of rowdy laughter. Jax and Tristana followed suit – Tristana offered him one of her energetic waves, and Jax…

"Well look who decided to join the fun!" Jax said in his usual brash manner. "You're late to the party, bud. Got a looooot o' chugging to do if you want to catch up."

"I must politely decline," Garret responded, sliding into the seat across from Gragas. "I am quite certain I would die if I drank at the rate you two are going," he said. "Fancy seeing you here, by the way," he said, looking at Tristana. She merely offered him one of her dazzling smiles.

"Graggy invited me," she said energetically. "Said there was booze and good atmosphere, so I thought 'why not?' Nice enough place, really. I might even stop in more frequently," she said, pausing to take a sip from her mug. "We invited Riven too, but she said nah."

"Just as well," Jax piped up from where he was sitting. "Pity parties should be kept to a one person minimum, y'know. And that girl? Hell, I get the feeling there'd be a looooot o' pity to go around if _she_ ever got shitfaced," he muttered. "By the way! This makes ten," he boasted, setting yet another empty mug on the growing pyramid before him. "You're gonna lose at this rate."

"Wha-What are you-_What?!"_ Tristana had gone from laid back and relaxed to shocked in the blink of an eye, rapidly alternating her gaze between Jax, the ten empty mugs in front of him, the half-finished grog in her own hands and the seven measly mugs before her. "Wha-_No!_ I call shenanigans!" She sputtered, rapidly beckoning to the bartender for a refill before raising the mug to her lips and chugging the remaining grog at a rate that made even Garret raise an eyebrow in wonder. As soon as she was finished, she raised a fist to her mouth, belched softly – and daintily, much to Garret's surprise – and set the mug down on her pile. "Clever plan, Jax. Distract me with small talk while you chug away. Well you're in for a shock – I'm a Commando. I'm made of _stern_ stuff, I can probably-" A loud hiccup cut her off mid speech, one loud enough to make even the bartender chortle under his breath. Tristana's cheeks flushed as she realized what had happened. "…Aw, dammit," she muttered under her breath, before perking up, ears twitching. She looked towards the entrance of the bar, and raised an eyebrow in wonder. "Huh. My Summoner's here. Wonder what that's about…" She mused, before turning back to Jax. "I… will be right back. Don't be an ass and drink without me, you hear?" She instructed, before vaulting off the table.

"I don't see no Summoner," Jax taunted her. "What, running already? You know you can just admit you lose. I won't hold it against you… forever, that is."

Tristana replied with a mirthless laugh. "I am _not _running," she said, and promptly blew a raspberry at Jax. "A Bandle Gunner never turns tail. Unless it's to taunt you," she said smugly, before sauntering off.

Jax gave a… less than virtuous chuckle at that line as Tristana walked off. "Yeah? Well she can taunt _me_ as much as she wants. I won't even complain," he said, drawing a chuckle from Gragas. It took Garret a good moment to realize what Jax had meant by that, and he even gone as far as to look back at Tristana himself, before sputtering and righting himself immediately.

"Really, Jax?" He asked dryly. "Even the Yordles?"

"Hey, _especially_ the Yordles!" Jax objected, mock indignation lining his voice. "Do you _know_ how much energy those little balls of happiness are sporting? Hell, some of my wildest nights have been with Yordles. Worth every ounce of tiredness the next day, lemme tell ya."

"Really," Garret responded, sounding anything but impressed. "Even her?" He asked, motioning to Tristana.

"What, Tristy? Hell no," Jax said. "She's got the looks, don't get me wrong. But she's military. That's _bad _juju right there. I generally stay away from the military folk. They've normally got more baggage than they know what to do with and last I checked, I ain't no fucking valet service," he said. "Anyways! A little bird told me the Starchild came and whisked you off after your match. What was that all about?" He asked. "Heard you lost. Did you score some pity nookie? Eh? Eh?"

"Please stop," Garret said, looking at Jax blankly. "I'd rather not have my interactions with her becoming awkward because of your… Well, because of you," he said. "Besides I _hardly_ view her in that light."

"Oh really?" Jax said, sounding as though he didn't believe a word of. "You wanna look into these lenses of mine and tell me you _haven't_ looked at those heavenly hips of hers at least once?"

He was being baited, Garret realized, quite heavily at that. "I am _not_ having this conversation with you," he said firmly, leaning back in his seat and reaching for his grog. "Anything I say now will enable you. So I'd rather not say anything at all," he said, raising the mug to his lips, taking a sip of his grog…

"...Did you stick it in her shitter?"

…and promptly he choked on said grog. In hindsight, taking a sip of _anything_ when Jax was in a teasing mood was probably extraordinarily foolish of him. Such is the curse of one easily flustered. Despite his spit take, though, he found himself smiling – Jax's comment had come completely out of left field for him, and, well, far be it from him to say a spit take isn't funny, even when he was the one doing it. Going by Jax and Gragas' uproarious laughter, the atmosphere had likely become even better for it. When his fit of coughing died down he found himself laughing along with them.

It was… a cathartic experience, really. It had been ages since he'd had a proper laugh in a bar.

"Eh, we're just fucking with ya, buddy," Jax said good-naturedly, adding an eleventh mug to his pile in blatant disregard of what Tristana had instructed him. "I can see that fancy bangle on your wrist. You planning something big? Maybe a bit of cross country travel?"

"Cross ocean travel, more like," Garret admitted. "I've been thinking about ways to achieve some kind of harmony with Furia's spirit, something that will let us transition easier on the Fields of Justice. Soraka, well, she told me about one the Institute's Champions who apparently had trouble with his own spirits. Apparently the people in Ionia helped him achieve harmony with them. I'm thinking if there's any place that can at least point me in the right direction, it's Ionia."

"Fancy that," Jax said, sounding legitimately surprised. "Hell, here I thought you'd be fucking off to Shurima first. That place seems to make everyone even vaguely interested in history wet. Ionia, though…" He trailed off, seemingly in thought. "Eh, it's a nice enough place. Lots of temples and monasteries alongside the long roads. Got its fair share of shit, though," he said seriously. "Like that sexy little ninja-nurse. She's from there. And that's not even starting on folks like Syndra," he said, shaking his head. "I don't give a damn what people say, twenty-two is too old to be actin' like a fucking brat."

"Well, the way you're speaking," Garret said with an honest smile, "makes it sound like Ionia's absolutely full of cultural treasures and marvels to discover, and great people to meet and avoid," he chuckled. "That probably part of why I'm so excited about it."

"You should be," Jax agreed. "Just remember: Keep away from the foxes. Seriously." A twelfth mug was added to his pile. "So how long are you gonna be away."

"It all depends on how long it takes me to find an answer, really," Garret spoke. "But I plan on taking the long road. There's a fishing village near the southern tip of Ionia where I plan to disembark. From there I'll make my way upwards. There are a lot of shrines and temples I want to dot down on a map again, maybe even pay my respects at some of them," he said with a shrug. "Need to stop by Soraka's monastery as well."

"Not really doing much to help your case here, buddy," Jax taunted with a lecherous tone. Garret shot him a baleful glare in the hopes of shutting him up, but as fate decreed, it failed miserably. "In any case," Jax continued, "if you're going on a long ass journey it's only proper we drink to it, eh?" He said seizing a new mug of grog. "So what are we drinking to?"

Garret pondered the question for a moment. "Answers, I guess," he answered eventually. "Answers, guidance, and harmony – clichéd as that may sound," he said.

"If it gives me an excuse to drink, I'll drink to it," Jax said dryly. "So there we have it!" He exclaimed, raising his mug. "To answers, guidance, harmony!"

As three, they raised their mugs, ignoring the distant '_Hey!'_ from Tristana when she noticed she action, and emptied their mugs in one clean motion. Garret savoured the breath he took afterwards. Just _speaking _of his upcoming trip to Ionia made the excitement within him bloom. There was so much for him to learn, so much to discover, and the fact that Soraka had guaranteed her two friends could at least help guide him towards a solution had him hastily agreeing before the Starchild even finished speaking.

He looked down at his mutated arm. Every now and then a pulse of red would travel beneath the leathery black skin towards the fingertips, illuminating the musculature beneath. This was his primary motivation – harmony. He had made a promise to Furia – and he was intending to keep it.

For better or for worse, for progress or delays, Ionia would at least shed some light on this situation.

"_Garret?"_ Furia's voice stirred him from his thoughts. "_I… I have a question."_

'_What seems to be the matter, Furia?' _Garret asked. '_I'd be happy to answer to the best of my ability.'_

Silence reigned for a few moments, before Furia cleared her throat.

"_What did Jax mean by that 'shitter' comment?"_

Garret's face immediately set itself into a mask of neutrality, and the scholar desperately fought to keep a blush from his cheeks. Maintaining a neutral expression was critical. Under _no_ circumstances could Jax even _suspect_ what Furia had just asked him. For a moment, he considered playing the question off. Feigning ignorance, as it may have been. But… He did say he'd answer to the best of his ability. And he _was_ a man of his word…

He let out a long-suffering sigh.

_This_ was going to be awkward…

* * *

**Post-Chapter A/N: And thus, Chapter 5 - and with it, the whole "Emergence" arc - comes to a close. Hey, remember how I said I'd do everything in my power _not_ to write a 40k+ word chapter again?... Yeah, so do I. If there was an emoji for soul-rending shame I would be spamming it here now. Nonetheless, I am _quite_ confident that the chapters of the Ionia Arc are going to be much more bearable.**

**So! This took... quite a while to update. Honestly speaking, I have no excuse - my creativity tanked at one stage due to heaping personal issues and problems and I take full responsibility for that. For what little it is worth, I am sorry I dallied so long.**

**For those interested, and those who are still confused, Garret filled the role of the 'jungler' for his team. **

**Some concerns I want to swat down before they take root: A) I'm quite aware the... "unique" way that Renekton addressed Furia by went forgotten. This _was_ deliberate on my part - I'd bet one's memory tends to be foggy in the post-survival wave of catharsis after escaping certain death at the hands of a vengeful Ascended. Secondly, some of the people who follow the lore closely are no doubt aware there is no "Wuju Monastery" in canon. The closest counterpart is, indeed, the Shojin Monastery - but that's in Ionia's Placidium, the central hub of Ionian culture and if I had to include _that_ in a chapter, then _you_, my dear readers, would be on the receiving end of a 100K+ word chapter.**

**I do _not_ intend to put you through that.**

**It's about time I stopped rambling, isn't it?**

**So to end off this author's note, I want to extend special thanks to everyone who took the time and effort to leave an encouraging review in my time of absence, and thank _you_, readers, for bearing with such a juggernaut chapter once more and reading up to this point. Those gestures alone mean much to me.**

**So until the next chapter - which _will_ arrive much quicker than this one did, I bid adieu, and a ton of best wishes for the festive season!**

**-Chaos.**


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